Fortnight in Rimini
by WhyAye
Summary: Despite being on holiday hundreds of miles from Oxford, Robbie, Laura, and James find themselves involved in solving a pair of murders. Inspired by Lewis's mention of "a fortnight in Rimini" from the opening moments of Beyond Good and Evil. Sorry, this one got huge on me while I was looking the other way . . .
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

"Oh, Sergeant Maddox – a word, if you have a moment?" Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent had been about to enter her office when she spotted her newest protégé coming toward her in the corridor. Detective Sergeant Lizzie Maddox gave a single, no-nonsense nod of her head. Not likely she could simply decline the offer. Her eyes met Innocent's squarely as she tried to read her boss's mood. The pleasant tone was standard-issue, and meant almost nothing. _What are the eyes saying?_ But Innocent was fully capable of not giving anything away, and Lizzie, clueless, could only follow her into the office. Innocent gestured toward a chair and smiled. Both the gesture and the smile were good signs.

"So, how's it going these days, Lizzie?"

_First name. Another good sign._ Lizzie, sitting, returned the smile. "Well, frankly, it's a bit quiet. I think DI Wiley is afraid to use me very much – afraid he'll leave a mark or scuff me up and then catch hell – oh, sorry, Ma'am – and then he'll hear about it from DI Hathaway when he gets back."

Innocent sat back. "So – you're missing him, the dour inspector?"

Lizzie thought before answering. Detective Inspector James Hathaway – her "guv'nor" – had left for a rare holiday a week ago. Their partnership hadn't gotten off to a good start, but after Innocent had enticed a retired DI – one Robbie Lewis – back onto the force in the capacity of Hathaway's mentor, things turned around. She had found it hard to believe that the warm, friendly, and insightful Lewis had ever had anything to do with Hathaway, who had seemed like an arrogant cold fish from Day One. But as soon as the two were together, she witnessed a remarkable change in the younger man. He wasn't arrogant, he was insecure in his promotion! And not at all a cold fish; he had instead a dry wit she found most amusing. With Lewis around, the trust grew rapidly between Hathaway and herself.

Innocent was waiting for her answer, her patience draining visibly by the moment.

"I _do_ miss him, Ma'am," Lizzie said, brightly. "A couple of weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed I would ever say this. But I think he and I have really clicked as a team. I never felt that with any of the other DIs I've worked with."

The senior officer looked interested. "Why not, do you think?"

Lizzie scowled. She didn't want to give voice to the first thought that sprang to mind. Jean Innocent, sensing her discomfort and the reason behind it, did that for her.

"Because they treat you differently, don't they?" Stated softly, but firmly, conclusively. Innocent noted the sergeant's dark eyes diverted sideways, avoiding contact. "Lizzie . . . sexism, racism – they're very real problems we need to deal with. Obviously, it's difficult to pinpoint that aura, those vague looks . . . I know how it feels, you know. But if there are particular individuals, or if there's a specific instance where you can identify a . . . a need for enlightenment – an educational opportunity, shall we say? Please don't hesitate to let me know about it."

Innocent paused, gathering her thoughts, and Maddox, innately aware that it was not her turn to speak, waited silently.

"You and I are women in what has always been a man's realm. We can never be an integral part of it – never." Jean took in Lizzie's dismayed look, and soldiered on. "Unless, _unless_—" she emphasized – "we take them down, one by one, win them over one at a time 'til they can see that we can be just as tough, just as smart, just as ruthless as they can. Once we get one to believe, we can get a second. And a third. And so on, and so on. You see what I mean? You can't let it distract you that there are men you won't be able to reach who will remain Neanderthals. There will always be Neanderthals. As long as you can convert the ones you work with every day, you're making progress."

Maddox glowed with the confidence she now felt. And she had to add, "DI Hathaway and DI Lewis don't need convincing, I think. I mean, I need to show them that I – Lizzie Maddox – can do the job. But they don't discount my work just because I'm a woman of color."

Innocent beamed. "No, those two wouldn't. You know they have your back." She straightened, indicating physically that this discussion had reached a conclusion. "If you and Hathaway create the team I believe you are capable of forming, this entire station will take a huge step toward enlightenment."

Lizzie grinned. "Don't expect us to bring _all_ the Neanderthals aboard, Ma'am. There are some that will never change, no matter what."

"I know. But you've already made great strides here." Innocent didn't say aloud her next thought, _I'm proud of you_, but Maddox sensed it, nonetheless.

"I'll try my best not to let you down, Ma'am," she said, getting up to leave.

But Innocent had one other item on her agenda. "Erm, Lizzie . . ." She shifted a bit uncomfortably, and Maddox paused, halfway out of her chair. "About DI Hathaway . . . do you know where it is he's gone on holiday?"

Maddox stood up now, confident in her answer. "He told me that I really had no reason to know. He said he was reconnecting with friends both old and ancient and that they had nothing to do with Oxfordshire police work." She smiled ruefully. "That's our James Hathaway, i'n'it?"


	2. Chapter 1

Robbie Lewis inhaled a lungful that he wished could have no ending. The air was scented with rosemary, lemon flowers, a touch of garlic, and – as a backdrop to all of it – the fresh breath of the sea. He circled his arms around his love, Laura Hobson, and together they gazed out over the darkening vista to the east. Above them, the blazing red sunset that backlit their hotel still ignited a few wispy clouds, but the eastern sky was already sprinkled with a few stars.

"Ready to go, then, Luv?" he said softly in her ear. "Battisti will expect us to be prompt."

She, too, took a deep breath before answering with a nod.

"Y'know . . ." he gathered his thoughts and then continued, "I thought it would smell like port cities in England – petrol and old fish and decaying seaweed. But it doesn't. How do they do that here?"

Laura grinned. "It's _Italy_, Robbie. It's _supposed_ to be enchanting."

He gave her one of those looks that meant he knew she was pulling his leg, but he had to concede the point. They were at last enjoying their 'fortnight in Rimini', and it was indeed enchanting. He was aware that one very likely explanation was that he was here with _her_, and that made it special by default. Yet there was no denying the fact that the air here was different from home. It not only smelled heavenly, but it also bore the light of day in a way that was totally unexpected by him. Light here was a presence. It could enter buildings as confidently as any human might enter a building – strong and irrefutable and not to be ignored. It changed everything it touched: either softening, with muted tones and gentle shadings, or making something brilliant and sharp with its unavoidable brightness. Light in England was not like this. Here, there were no watery sunrises, no damp, grey sunsets. Sunlight was either obviously present or obviously absent. And Italian moods, he had found, could swing just as wide and were as good an indicator as any of the state of the sun and the weather.

And he was experiencing these phenomena here with the second love of his life. He knew she saw it pretty much as he did. But they each noticed different things, and would often point them out for the other to share. One of his favorite moments was their daily afternoon cone of gelato, when they would compare their impressions and the images that had stuck with each of them during the day.

He knew it would be over all too soon, and they would be heading back to Oxford and back to the horrors their work often involved. But for now, he would simply enjoy immersing himself in the delights of Italy.

0 - 0 - 0

Detective Inspector James Hathaway gazed out at the foaming wake that receded endlessly from the stern of the ship. The water was still an almost phosphorescent aqua, even as the light was beginning to fade into evening. He had never expected to find himself on a cruise ship – not even a small one like the _Song of the Adriatic_ – but he couldn't say no to Paolo Ferrara, who had asked James to accompany him on this one last indulgence. Ferrara had been James's go-to guy in seminary. Older than James by half, but with a heart that seemed decades younger, he had understood the serious Englishman, despite being a native of Naples. Ferrara always knew what to say – and when not to say anything – around James. They were a team, of sorts, battling against the other students, the professors, the hierarchy, whatever seemed to oppose them. They both regretted their parting of the ways when it came, but managed to keep in touch without losing a single degree of closeness over the years. James knew he had let Paolo down when he quit the seminary and went civilian. And since then, he felt he had to make it up.

Not too long ago, Paolo had reluctantly revealed to James that he had very little time left to spend in the earthly world. He'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and he had perhaps only a handful of months to live. He wanted, more than anything, to tour Italy as he had never done before – Florence, Pisa, Rome, Venice – and especially to follow the footsteps of Dante Alighieri, whom he admired more than almost any other human being. Hathaway had at first resisted, not caring at all for prepackaged tours and tagging along with groups of people of varying (and generally disappointing) levels of intelligence. But Ferrara was adamant, and James was incapable of denying his dear friend this last favor. And so he was seeing the best of Italy with his old friend at his side, in part via motorcoach and in part via small cruise ship.

And, Hathaway had to admit, he was enjoying it immensely. Thinking back on the high points, he knew the pinnacle was the moment in Florence when he was in the presence of The David. He could barely believe that a large slab of Carrera marble would have such an effect on him. But . . . it had a presence, an irrefutable presence. It _required_ the viewer to sign up for service – _Yes, yes, I will help you fight this Goliath!_ He remained in the Accademia for six hours, unwilling to remove himself from this presence. He suspected that Accademia security had been alerted, and that had he taken any action they considered unfavorable, he would have been immediately ejected. But all he could do was to stand and stare. He knew that in some subtle way, he would never be the same.

The fact that Florence also retained the very tangible presence of Dante – who had lived almost all his life within its walls before his exile from the city that broke his heart - had been for James completely subsidiary to Michelangelo's David. Hathaway found that when he talked to the other passengers in their tour group, if they had seen the David in person, they understood. Those who had not seen it did not understand.

At last, Paolo had touched James on the arm and with no more than a gentle, understanding smile, conveyed the idea that it was time to let David go; there was nothing more the statue could teach him. James acquiesced, sensing that Paolo somehow knew instinctively what was important on this voyage.

And now, days later, James sought out the spirit of David to help himself overcome his own present obstacles. He lit a cigarette and thought about Paolo, thought about Oxford and his career there, thought even about Robbie Lewis and their personal and professional connections. His brow was deeply furrowed when his concentration was shattered by a shout from the outside world.

"Oi! Jamesy! Ceniamo!"

Hathaway turned, and his grin was automatic at the shout of '_Let's go to dinner!_' in Italian.

"We're signed up for the next dinner shift, eh? Dai! Andiamo!" Ferrara grabbed James by the arm and pulled him toward the ship's stairway.

Hathaway's conversational Italian wasn't great, but he understood his friend, and he knew enough that they had better show up for the next seating for dinner. He put a hand on Paolo's shoulder, and they walked side by side to the next deck down. They would dine _al fresco_, overlooking the ship's wake and the seas the ship had just passed over. The spread put out by the kitchen of the _Song of the Adriatic_ wasn't as extensive or as extravagant as those produced by the mega-cruise-ship kitchens. In general, the food was simple, almost peasant fare. But it was excellent – fresh, and produced not by the thousands of plates but with much more individual attention. James had been told that although the ship was flagged with the Union Jack, her kitchen staff was Mediterranean – Italian and Greek for the most part – and the cuisine adhered to the finest culinary principles and flavors of those native cuisines. And that was just fine with James Hathaway.


	3. Chapter 2

Robbie and Laura tucked into the delicious meal Claudio Battisti had set before them. After an appetizer of bruschetta with fresh tomatoes and basil, Battisti dished up pasta with a clam sauce, scented with lemon, fresh herbs from his window boxes, and that ever-present breath of sea air. Laura knew the two senior detectives had been almost adversaries, years ago, before she had been the Oxfordshire ME and when Robbie was still taking orders from Inspector Morse. It was a relationship that could have remained characterized by hostility. But Lewis's easygoing personality was well matched by the Italian detective's professional respect for his English counterpart, and the two had remained friends through the years after their first meeting. Laura and Robbie's trip to Rimini was largely inspired by this man they now shared their meal with. Lewis had learned that Claudio's wife had died only six months after the death of Lewis's wife, Val. And from then on, the two men had forged a bond based on their capacity to provide strength to the other – Lewis called on Battisti when he felt lost, and Claudio called Robbie when he couldn't picture life without his wife. Soon after his wife's death, Claudio had requested a transfer from Vicenza to Rimini, where his family originated. And here he had remade his life.

So now they were sitting at the dinner table of the Italian police officer, enjoying the pasta course of the meal and simmering in the warmth of the gentle music that was playing in the background. Battisti, like Lewis, had aged some since they had last seen each other in person. His dark hair and beard were shot with silver, and although he was still fit, he'd put on a few pounds around the middle. His black eyes, however, were as fiery as ever.

Robbie grinned at his friend. "How long 'til you cash it in, Claudio?"

The other looked surprised. "I have many long years of service yet, Inspector. We here in Italia don't have the same retirement system you have in England, you know. I will need to look out for myself."

"Naturalmente." Despite Laura's skepticism, Lewis _had_ learned some Italian, after all.

Battisti gazed at Laura, not attempting to conceal his emotions. He had been meeting with Lewis during the past several days, both in the office and out of it, but this was his first time meeting Laura. "You are so fortunate, my friend. Such a beautiful woman, it is obvious you two are happy together. But tell me . . . how did you meet?"

Lewis chuckled. "Laura's our medical examiner. She does the autopsies. So we had a lot of contact before . . ." He broke off. He wasn't sure how to characterize the feelings that grew ever so gradually between them.

The Italian almost jumped out of his chair. "A doctor?! Eccellente!" He turned to Robbie. "Roby, you have done well for yourself! I envy your . . . your life's events." He smirked at himself. "I don't say this well, yes?"

"You say it just fine, Claudio." Robbie reassured him, grinning at the Italian-familiar form of his name. "I know I've been extremely lucky." He squeezed Laura's shoulder, and she beamed at him.

"And you have the ability to remain active in police work but can step back whenever you like . . . ?" It was clear Battisti recognized Lewis had the best of both worlds.

Lewis's grin answered his question.

"But . . . are you on call now? Can they order you back to England if they need you?" He caught the look Robbie and Laura shared. "They can't?!"

Lewis just shrugged helplessly. "Laura wouldn't let me tell them where we were going. What can I say?"

Shaking his head and laughing, Battisti refilled their wine glasses. "Say this: Here's to old friends. In Italia, we toast like this: _Cin-cin_!" Lewis and Hobson murmured "Cheers!" and they all clinked glasses. Lewis reached for Laura's hand and squeezed it. He wasn't sure if the warmth came from the food, the wine, the candles, or the company. Probably it came from all of these. Moments like this, he realized, are what is important.

0 - 0 - 0

Hathaway had drained his tiny cup of espresso, but Ferrara was still savoring his. James chided himself mentally for having rushed through something that should be lingered over. But he was craving his post-dinner cigarette. As he waited for Paolo to finish, he gazed around the dining area. One thing he had enjoyed about this trip was the tremendous potential for people-watching. Who were his fellow passengers, what motivated them, what did their behavior reveal about their pasts? He spotted one couple that he immediately deduced was experiencing serious marital discord. They were both past their middle years, but they were fashionably dressed, and the wife wore an almost gaudy bejeweled pendant around her neck. The husband – Hathaway knew from instinct that they were married – was leaning as far as possible in the opposite direction from his wife, and she was scowling off into space. Her eyes lit up, however, when a second man joined their party. James immediately recognized the newcomer as the Captain of the ship; he not only bore four bars of gold braid on the cuffs of his jacket, but his photo had appeared on numerous publications promoting the cruise. The captain was English, James knew, trained in the great traditions of Dartmouth. In fact, almost all of the officers aboard the _Song of the Adriatic_ were English. Hathaway wasn't sure if that was reassuring. He'd heard that Scandinavians – Norwegians, in particular – made the best ship's officers.

Deciding on a second espresso to keep Paolo company, Hathaway looked around to signal their waitress. He spotted her several yards away, but there was no making eye contact – her gaze was fixed on the table where the Captain now sat. As she stared in rapt attention, openly admiring him, she fingered the low neckline of her uniform. Her lips were parted slightly, and the tip of her tongue ran over her lips as though she could taste him. Her cheeks were flushed. At last Hathaway saw her sigh heavily and turn to scan the other diners. He signaled her with a beckoning finger, and she detached herself from the wall she had been leaning against and came over.

"I'd like another espresso, please. And – " he broke off as though he wasn't sure he should continue. She smiled encouragingly, back in her role as a polite server. "Can I ask you something? Isn't that the Captain there? Shouldn't he be driving the ship? Or 'sailing,' whatever you call it."

He could see her glow at the mention of her favorite subject. "Oh, no, captains don't sail the ship themselves unless they're doing a 'maneuver' – a tricky bit of navigation that needs someone with his skill and experience." She stole another peek at the subject of their discussion, and James smiled at her indulgently, showing he understood how things were between the two. She giggled as though embarrassed. "We're actually a bit of an item, he and I. He treats me totally professionally in public, but when we're in his quarters, it's another story. He makes me feel very special."

James raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The Captain's girlfriend? Ooh, I bet there's more than a few people jealous of you, Olivia." James's sharp eye had caught the name on her badge.

She giggled again. "He's not just a captain, he's what we call the 'Master'. The top man in charge, like the supervisor. He's like a god on his ship." Her voice turned dreamy. "He oversees all the people working on the ship, and whatever he says is what happens."

Hathaway looked impressed. "He's quite a prize, then. Do other people know about you and him?"

She grinned happily. "Well, you know. Life on a cruise ship – there's no privacy here." Her expression became confidential. "One person who I _know_ is jealous is sitting right there with him. That's retired Captain Robert Palmer and his wife Sophie. She wants our Master in the worst way, but he isn't the least bit interested." For an instant, her expression became as malevolent as any Hathaway had seen. "I'd kill her if she touched him." Then she tossed off the dark mood and smirked a little before returning to the job at hand. "I'll be right back with that espresso." She hurried away, eyes still fixed on the Captain's table.

Paolo gently slapped James's arm. "You can't help being nosy, can you?"

"Occupational habit. D'you think the Captain would really have a waitress for his girlfriend?"

"Why not? It must get pretty lonely being out to sea all the time. I think it's rather sweet."

James snorted. "You're such a romantic, Paolo. Bloody Italians, all you think about is _l'amore_." But his smile was full of affection for his friend.

0 - 0 - 0

As Hathaway sipped his fresh cup, his keen eyesight picked up furtive movement under the table where Captain Franklin sat with the unhappy couple – Sophie was sliding her now-shoeless foot up Franklin's leg, past his knee, and toward his inner thigh. He shifted suddenly, looking with exasperation at the woman, and announced that his presence was required on the bridge. Captain Palmer – who had until then looked most displeased with everyone at the table – flinched a momentary smile before falling back into a scowl. Sophie frowned deeply.

James watched as Franklin hurried off, leaving the table and its discordant couple. He then realized Paolo was studying him with an amused air.

"You watch the unhappy couple – why? You should be checking out the First Officer at the table next to us." Paolo unobtrusively tilted his head in the direction of the adjacent table. Hathaway followed the trajectory.

He identified the First Officer by the three braids of gold on the cuffs of her jacket sleeves. She was stunning – dark hair, dark eyes, aquiline nose – _She can't be English!_ was his first thought. She suddenly met his eyes squarely and he flushed with an unexpected heat. Then she looked away and Hathaway found himself huffing a breath in relief. Ferrara could scarcely keep his smile under control.

"Talk to her!" he urged. James shook his head.

"What would I say?"

His Italian friend waved his outspread hands in beseeching exasperation. "What do you feel?!"

Hathaway shut down. "I need a smoke." He turned brusquely from his friend, got up from his chair, and strode for the stern of the ship. Paolo gazed after James unhappily, then polished off his espresso and followed him out. Behind him, the First Officer in question rose from her chair and headed for the stern, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket as she went.

She stood near the two men she had noticed, struggling to light her cigarette in the brisk evening breeze. Hathaway noticed, and before he could think about it, he had already cupped his hand around the end of her fag and touched it with the flame of his lighter. She gazed at him gratefully when the end ignited.

"Graz'," she muttered around the cigarette between her lips, meeting his eyes.

He cocked his head to hear her speak Italian. "Prego."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Parla italiano?"

He couldn't deny feeling smug at having pegged her nationality. "Un po'. But I don't speak it well," he concluded in English.

She grinned. "Even native speakers struggle sometimes." Then her eyes shifted to Paolo, and her grin spread to him. "I see you, too, are in uniform even when off-duty."

Ferrara self-consciously fingered his priest's collar. "Well, with some jobs, you're never _really_ off-duty, right?"

She nodded. Then she shook her head, dismayed at her own rudeness. "Mi dispiace - Stefania Rossi, First Officer." She extended her right hand. Paolo took it first: "Paolo Ferrara sono. Da Napoli. And this is my dear English friend, James Hathaway. He also understands the pressures of wearing a uniform." Paolo crooked his head toward James as though passing him a soccer ball.

_Che palle, veramente!_ James thought, chuckling to himself despite Paolo's cheek. In answer to the woman's puzzled expression, he explained, "I'm a policeman. These days I don't wear a uniform, but even in plainclothes, I'm on duty 24/7, like priests and first officers."

A broad, delighted smile. "A policeman! Bravo! Plainclothes – you must be a detective?"

Hathaway found himself charmed by her accent, and he couldn't help smiling when he replied, "That's exactly right. I'm a detective inspector."

Drawing thoughtfully on her cigarette, she didn't reply. James took the opportunity to look her over more thoroughly, not noticing Paolo's tacit approval of the attention he was giving the First Officer.

She was probably in her mid-thirties, he figured, but her shining, dark hair showed no hint of grey, and her face, after years of sun and salt air, creased into crow's feet and other lines that implied she smiled a lot. He liked her face, it was a comfortable face. Her body was fit and trim; not bony but without thickening around the hips or waist. Her breasts were full but not obviously so, and he found himself wishing she was wearing something besides her rather androgynous uniform. He shook his head free from the track his mind was taking and launched the conversation in another direction.

"So, First Officer: you're here, I saw the Captain in the dining room just a few minutes ago . . . who's driving the ship?"

Checking to ensure his question was more serious than his tone implied, she nodded in comprehension. "You like to understand your environment, don't you? I can tell you everything you want to know about this ship. We have three watches – three shifts, you civilians would say – 4 to 8, 8 to 12, and 12 to 4. So: each watch is on twice a day, changing every eight bells."

"Eight bells?" Ferrara was puzzled. "Wouldn't that be only at eight o'clock?"

She smiled indulgently. "A ship's clock strikes once for each half hour of watch that has passed: one at 4:30, two at 5:00, three at 5:30, and so on up to eight at 8:00. Then it starts over, one at 8:30 and so on. The bells are struck in pairs to make it easier to count – ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding – six bells, so one hour of watch to go. You see?"

"How do you know six bells is 7:00 and not 11:00 or 3:00?"

"Usually you can tell from the daylight. But frankly, all you need to know is when it strikes eight bells, you're done with your watch!"

Paolo nodded, then checked James's expression. "You already knew that, yes?"

"Of course."

Stefania continued with her explanation. "I have the second watch, which is from 8 to 12, morning and evening. Captain – the Master, Scott Franklin – is also on duty from 8 to 12, but he's not technically an officer of the watch. In charge is either a First Officer or a Second Officer. Okay?"

Hathaway was keeping up. "Three shifts, one First Officer, one Second Officer – who gets the third shift?"

"Ah. No, sorry, I don't explain well. There are two Second Officers aboard. And, in fact, right now there are two First Officers aboard. I boarded today at Split and the other First Officer will disembark tomorrow at Ravenna." She added, "The Staff Captains do that, too. We took one on yesterday, and the other disembarked today at Split."

Hathaway's brow furrowed as he took in all this new information. "Staff Captain, what does he or she do?"

He could tell she appreciated his gender-inclusive terminology. "Well, the Master can't be on duty 24 and 7, he has to have some rest time. So the K2, as we call him – and it's almost always 'him', believe me – is on board, too. That's Captain Barstow. They take turns being on duty and being on call. Generally, the operation of the ship is in the hands of the lesser officers, but there needs to be a Captain at hand at all times. Only one is 'Master', though. For us, that's Scott Franklin."

Paolo intervened. "Is he good, Captain Franklin? Do you respect him?"

Stefania took two drags on her cigarette as she considered her answer. Then at last, "Yes. He is good. He is a very good mariner. But as a manager, he is maybe not so good. Some of his junior officers are envious, they don't understand the value of experience, they are too arrogant, too confident of their own skills. They need a stricter hand. In my opinion, he tries too much to teach them when he should punish them for their mistakes." She stubbed out her cigarette and pulled out another, which Hathaway wordlessly helped her light. "These young officers, they think they are entitled to rank. In truth, they are promoted because we need to fill the positions. They aren't qualified, really. I mean, they pass the tests and have their certificates, but there's no substitute for time. I had to put in twice as many years because, of course, I am a woman. But Captain Franklin, he has earned his rank. He has put in the years." She gave Paolo a lopsided grin. "So if you want my quick answer – Captain Franklin is good – the best."

The way she said it made Hathaway wonder for a split second if there wasn't more between Captain Franklin and his First Officer than met the eye. He almost immediately dismissed that thought from his mind, but nonetheless kept it stored under "Unlikely, but let's not forget."

Then First Officer Rossi extended her hand once more: "Gentlemen, it's a pleasure, but I must go. Officers have not only sailing duties but administrative ones as well. 'Paperwork', I believe is the English term." She smiled ruefully.

Ferrara murmured "buona notte" and Hathaway dipped his head in a sort of salute. "Goodnight, Signorina Rossi."

She cracked a crooked smile. "Signorina? No one has called me that for several years. Please, call me Stefania. And if you have any questions about the ship, our course, the crew . . . _anything_, just ask me, okay?" She gave him a small card with her professional details, then turned over as he held it – her personal mobile number was penned onto the back. She winked and turned away.

Hathaway watched her as she re-entered the dining area and disappeared from view. Then he took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out. Only then did he catch the amused look on his friend's face. His smile twisted into a bit of a warning to not say anything. Paolo simply clapped James on the shoulder and guided him back into the ship's interior. Once again, James was grateful for the understanding they shared.

0 - 0 - 0

First Officer Earl Andrews turned around from his position in the pilot's chair to see who had entered the bridge. It was Staff Captain Chris Barstow. Andrews groaned inwardly. All Barstow did these days, it seemed, was complain about the Master. While Earl shared some of Barstow's opinions about the Master being too strict, he would never voice such a disrespectful position aloud, certainly not in front of junior officers. _Why is he even on the bridge right now?_ Andrews wondered. _Probably trying to catch me in a screw-up_. That indeed, he thought, was the most likely explanation. Barstow would know that Andrews was gunning for his job, and it seemed easier and easier for Earl to believe it wouldn't be long before he would have the superior rank. As Andrews expected, Barstow glared at Second Officer Steve Carter, who had been leaning on the front rail, chatting with Andrews.

"Whatever are _you_ doing here, Carter? Holding Earl's hand in case it gets too rough for him? This isn't your watch, as I recall. Oh, I know. Andrews _lets_ you be here because you two are so . . . _close_." Unconcealed sneering in his tone.

Both Carter and Andrews paid no attention to him, and next Barstow was muttering grumpily to the helmsman. Earl heard the Master's name more than once. The rest he ignored, though he shot a look toward Carter, the one man on this ship that he considered to be a friend. The look was returned in kind. The two shared most of their opinions about the officers, crew, and ship life in general. They both felt that Barstow was just envious of the reputation Captain Franklin enjoyed as one of the most skilled sailors in the Company. Andrews was proud to serve on this ship.

"What's the matter, Andrews? Don't like me dissing your boyfriend?" Barstow clapped the First Officer on the shoulder. The helmsman guffawed.

Earl shifted uncomfortably at the contact. "With all due respect, Sir, I'm trying to keep watch here."

"Really? In your condition?"

Earl's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, Sir?"

Barstow barked a laugh. Then he put his mouth uncomfortably close to Andrews's ear. "I know all about your little habit, Earl. You should wipe your nose better between blows. Cap'n Franklin know about that? Or maybe he supplies you? Wouldn't surprise me to learn he has a hand in your enterprise. He's not one to not know what's happening on his ship, eh?"

Andrews jumped to his feet, his hands balled into fists. "You don't know what you're talking about – with all due respect, Sir!" He was breathing hard. "A lot of ugly rumors fly around this ship that have not one shred of truth!"

Barstow only laughed roughly. "Don't get your knickers in a knot, Earl. I like having you around. You make me look good." Winking at the helmsman, Barstow headed from the bridge. "Have fun, boys!"

As the door closed behind him, Carter gave Andrews a sympathetic smile. "Don't let him get to you, Earl. He doesn't know half what he pretends to know. Guys like you and me – we know what really goes on aboard this ship."

Andrews slowly unclenched his fists. "I swear I'm going to bust his nose some day."

Carter grinned. "You're such a hothead. Look how worked up you are. Your ears are all red. I'm going stomp all over you in FIFA tonight after my watch." He mimed rapidly working a game controller.

Andrews scowled. "You'd whip me tonight anyway. No way will I be able to concentrate. Master wants to see me about something."

"_Master_? Shit, what'd you do?" Both men knew a good sailor was an invisible sailor. If the Master noticed you, or wanted to see you about something, you were about to get a carpeting.

The First Officer shrugged. "I can't think of anything. But sometimes it's what you _didn't_ do, y'know?" It was true, and all Carter could do was look sympathetic.

Other officers were arriving on the bridge as the clock wound down on the second watch. When eight bells rang at last, Carter punched Andrews on the arm. "Go get yourself a beer. Then go see the Master and get it over with. I'll see you in four hours, okay?"


	4. Chapter 3

It was several hours after midnight when the Master checked the clock on the wall of his quarters. He had finished the day's journal entries, log-book write-ups, personnel matters, safety reports, route deviations, and all the other minutia required of a captain, and had been sipping a brandy and reading, hoping to be in bed within the half hour. But so far, there had been no sign of the First Officer he had ordered to appear. He frowned. _Should have given Andrews a specific time_. But he hadn't wanted the 28-year-old to worry too much, and it seemed less confrontational to let him set his own time. Late-night calls were not unusual, and he'd already had a few that night. But Captain Franklin had been hoping to get at least a few hours' sleep yet tonight. Their passage in calm waters across the Adriatic wouldn't likely create any need for his leadership, so there was a good chance he could get some rest. Just as he was closing his book, there came a quiet knock. Sighing, he got up from his chair and opened the door to his quarters. "Ah, it's you. Come on in. There's something I need to discuss with you."

He opened the door wide to admit his visitor.


	5. Chapter 4

"Where is that arrogant bastard? I'm already fifteen minutes past my watch! And he's the one who's always so strict about being on time!"

First Officer Rossi rolled her eyes. It was only 8:13, so the watch had changed only 13 minutes ago. The K2, Captain Barstow, tended to be pretty high-maintenance. He was late for his own duty almost as often as he was on time, and yet he was known for complaining immediately every time he had to stay one minute over due to someone else being late.

"Why don't you go off to quarters, Sir? Master will be here soon enough, and his presence isn't required, anyway. I'll make sure we don't get into trouble 'til he's here." Barstow was not her favorite overseer by a long shot, and she was under the impression that his recent performance review had not gone well. Franklin would have sent that assessment to the Company at most a day or two ago if he'd caught the internet while the ship's hit-or-miss network was functional, and Barstow was probably on edge to see what sort of decision would result. Rossi thought it likely that if Franklin had written up Barstow's review accurately, he very possibly could be facing demotion. If so, Barstow would be feeling no small amount of venom toward his superior officer.

"I _can't_ go, can I, Rossi?" He looked overburdened. "We've got Ravenna coming up in a few hours and no one has made arrangements. I'll take the watch, _you_ go bring him 'round, he's probably having a lie-in with one of his floozies. Go drag him out of bed and get him up here. In uniform, preferably. But do whatever it takes." He leered at her.

Rossi turned sharply. She had heard gossip about Franklin's bedroom adventures, but she didn't believe any of them. She had never seen him act inappropriately toward a woman, and had never found any of the rumors substantiated. Instead, she discovered they were mostly initiated by non-officer crew: wanna-be lovers who would never get anywhere in their attempted quests. He didn't have time to take on a lover; between being on call for the watch and his other duties as Master, there was precious little free time, she knew. It was a burden and a schedule that she coveted more than anything. _Master_. How many more years would she have to wait?

The Master's quarters were immediately adjacent to the command bridge, though the entrance opened onto the corridor, and not the bridge itself. She knocked firmly on the door. There was no answer, but as she pushed on the door, it gave. It hadn't been closed tightly. Odd.

"Captain Franklin? . . . Sir?" She pushed into the suite, the first room of which was his office. Nothing seemed amiss, though the papers on his desk were in an unusual state of disarray. His computer was in sleep mode. She intruded further into his private space, knocking on the bedroom door.

"Captain?" She waited, listening hard. No sound at all. "Sir?" Knocking again, she tried the knob. It was unlocked. Inhaling deeply, knowing she was seriously violating protocol by invading his personal quarters, she pushed the door open. "Captain Franklin?" she asked again.

Then she gasped aloud, choking on the bile that rushed to her throat at the heavy, ferric smell of blood that filled her lungs and at the sight – the _sight!_ – of Captain Scott Franklin lying on the floor, his head and neck covered in blood, the carpet soaking up more blood that mixed with the former contents of a broken brandy bottle, also coated in blood. She understood immediately that he was dead, but she couldn't stop herself from rushing to his side.

"Captain!" then with more desperation, "Scott!" But when she touched him, she was hit by the realization that she was far too late to render any assistance, and she backed away, horrified. When she reached the outer corridor, she pulled the door firmly shut, turned, and vomited. Wiping her mouth and fighting the tears that rose in her eyes, she stumbled back to the bridge. Barstow looked up, a sharp word on his lips, but he bit it back when he took in Rossi's appearance. His brow clouded in confusion.

"What th' . . . ? He put up a fight?"

Rossi shook her head, trying to find the words. "Captain, I . . . ." She took a breath and started again. "He's dead." It was all she could say. Barstow pushed past her and sprinted to Franklin's suite. In seconds, he was back on the bridge. "Shit. Damn him." He saw Rossi pick up the phone, and his eyes turned hard. "What are you doing?" When she didn't answer, he pressed on. "Who are you calling, Stefania?"

Rossi stopped. Barstow would of course know she was calling the Company. That was standard protocol. She stared at him, then at last looked around the bridge at the others on the watch - the Third Officer, the helmsman, and the radioman– all men, all staring at her. Barstow took a step toward her. "Put the phone down. First, let's figure out what we should do." There was veiled menace in his voice.

Rossi furrowed her brow. "'_What we should do_'? What we should do is call the Company and let them tell us what we should do. And we should call the Capitaneria or the Carabinieri and tell them we've had a murder on board."

Barstow gave her a patronizing smile, and the others smirked. "That is precisely what we should _not_ do. You've never been much of a team player, have you, Stefania? Perhaps it's because you lack the necessary . . . _equipment_." He leered at her. "We need to keep this within the family, isn't that how you Italians would put it? I will call the Company myself and inform them of our . . . little difficulty. Why don't you take a break from duty? You've had quite a shock, finding him like that."

As he reached to take the phone from her, she felt like slugging him. She threw the handset at him and spun around, furious, then steamed out the door.

0 - 0 - 0

James delighted in watching the day come to light – the sun was just coming up, and the clouds were tinged with pink in the east, which gradually turned to red, and then orange, as the sun crawled above the horizon. The sea sparkled, as though tiny bits of flame had been cast onto it like confetti. He rubbed out the last of his morning cigarette and turned to go back into the dining area of the ship. Paolo had begged off breakfast this morning – his stomach wasn't cooperating, and he needed a bit more rest time, he said. So Hathaway was on his own for breakfast. As he opened the door to the dining area, he was hit by a small tornado that ran into his right side.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, Inspector!" It was Stefania. But not the same Stefania he had met last night. She looked as though she had not only been up all night but that she had also fought off a herd of wild boars. There was blood on her uniform, and she was disheveled and distraught.

He shushed her, pulling her close to reduce the flailing of her limbs. "Stefania, shush, calm down. Breathe deeply and then tell me what's wrong."

His taking control of the situation seemed to work well for her. She inhaled . . . exhaled . . . inhaled again. Her eyes cleared, and she met his gaze solidly.

"James. The Captain. He's been murdered. You have to help us."

Most unexpected. "Murdered? Are you sure?"

She described the scene as she had found it.

Hathaway shifted immediately into his professional mode. "Okay. Is anyone guarding the scene? We need to protect it."

She blinked, not comprehending at first. Then, "Nnnooo . . . I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me."

He took her by the arm. "Take me there. And tell me what happened. When did you find him?"

As they headed through to the bow of the ship, Stefania in a low voice related the events of the past half hour, omitting only Barstow's insulting comments. "So now Captain Barstow is handling this without outside intervention – I'm afraid there's going to be some kind of cover-up. Shouldn't we call the police?"

James drew in a sharp breath. "Not yet. First, we need to secure the scene. Second, since this is a British vessel and the victim is British, it's properly a British problem. Barstow's right – the Italian authorities should not get involved unless this will somehow affect the security of their ports or waters." He studied her, assessing her state of mind. She seemed to have collected her wits and to be capable of clear thought. "Look, what we have here is a classic English country house murder." He noted her puzzled expression. "No one can get in and no one can get out. The killer is someone on board right now. If we start letting other people – even the police – on board, we risk contaminating our perfect, closed pool of suspects."

She nodded her understanding. Then she stopped walking: "This is it."

The door to the Master's quarters was closed. James fished around in his jacket pockets and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Stefania gave him a funny look, and he shrugged. "Occupational habit. Don't touch anything unless I say it's okay."

She frowned. "I already did. I touched the doors to open and close them."

He nodded his understanding. "That's fine, we'll just have to take your prints then so we can eliminate them."

But as he reached for the door handle, he realized the door gave with just a push, and his closer examination revealed that the lock had been forced so that the door no longer latched properly. _Someone had broken in_.

Rossi led Hathaway through the office and back to the bedroom. Franklin lay exactly as she remembered him, the blood pooling around his head and soaking into the carpet. Hathaway stayed back and held her back too, making sure neither of them stepped on any blood spatters or broken glass. After a cursory look around, he returned to the office area of the suite, scanning the papers on the desk. Although the rest of the desk was extraordinarily neat, the papers on the blotter were scattered, and a Mont Blanc pen lay on the carpet. The papers appeared to be forms for personnel matters.

Hathaway sighed. "What we need is a forensic team. I don't suppose any of the passengers are forensic scientists?" He didn't really expect her to know.

Rossi shrugged. "We don't do a complete background check on our passengers. Should I put out a request?"

"And say what? The Captain's been murdered, so if any of you can help, please come see the body in his cabin?" He sighed resignedly. "Stay here. Don't touch anything and don't let anyone else in. I need to talk to Barstow. Which way to the bridge?"

0 - 0 - 0

When he entered the bridge, he felt four pairs of eyes burn into him. The Third Officer stepped forward, aggressively. "Sir, I'm sorry, no passengers allowed on the bridge."

Hathaway flipped open his warrant card. "I'm DI Hathaway, Oxfordshire police. I'm here to investigate your murder. Now, unless you want me to go and notify the Carabinieri of your situation here, I suggest you cooperate to the fullest extent."

Barstow glowered. "How did you get on board?"

"I've been on board for days, Captain. I happen to be one of your passengers." Hathaway's mild tone gave the K2 nothing to get angry about, but the man remained clearly hostile. James continued, "How has the Company advised you to proceed? Or haven't you notified them yet?"

"That's none of your business. You don't have jurisdiction here."

James blinked once, nodded curtly, and turned. "Fine. We'll do this the hard way." He pulled out his cell phone as he left the bridge.

"Wait!"

By the time he turned around, Hathaway had managed to erase the tiny smile from his lips. "So. How does the Company want to handle this?"

"As quietly as possible, of course, and with a minimum of Italian intervention."

"Good, I agree entirely. However, I need a forensic investigation. I'll have to contact the police for a team." Seeing Barstow was about to protest, James explained, "Not the Carabinieri, but the local state police. They won't feel so much of a need to butt in. But until the forensics are done, we can't even move the body or begin to investigate. Meanwhile, if you would please get me a list of everyone on board, both passengers and crew, as well as the crew assignments between midnight and half eight this morning? And bring the ship to the nearest port, but drop anchor, don't dock, if that's possible. No one is to embark or disembark. Understood?"

Grumbling, Barstow issued orders complying with Hathaway's direction. Secretly, he was glad that someone else was in charge of this mess.

When the ship stopped moving and dropped anchor, Hathaway had more questions. "What port is this?"

"Rimini," came the hostile reply.

"Does the port authority know why we're not docking?"

The Captain's air of disdain was obvious. "Of course they know. The harbor here can't accommodate vessels longer than 18 meters – this ship can't possibly dock here." He clearly had no time for landlubbers, and he pushed past Hathaway as he went to check that the anchorage was secure.


	6. Chapter 5

"_Mi scusate_, I have to take this call." Battisti regretfully turned from his English guests. He had been giving Laura the same tour of his _commissariato_ – the police station – that he had given Lewis a few days earlier while Laura went to a cooking lesson, and Lewis was tagging along happily now, enjoying the chance to look at all the details he had missed on first viewing.

Battisti turned his back as he muttered in rapid Italian into the phone, and neither Robbie nor Laura caught a single word. Even when emotions heated up, and Claudio was fairly shouting into the phone, the words flew past the two Brits without comprehension. With their eyes averted so as not to intrude, they didn't notice the frequent looks Battisti gave them, but they did notice when the conversation stopped entirely.

"Eh . . ." Claudio began, awkwardly, his hand cupped over the receiver. His guests looked expectantly at him. "Robbie . . ." he began again, ". . . there has been an, ehh, incident aboard an English cruise ship, located just off our port. A _murder_, I must tell you. They have an English police officer aboard as a passenger, he is the one to contact my _questore_ – my boss – who has called on my commissariato to put together a forensics team. I would like to offer our lovely doctor –" he nodded at Hobson, "to lead the forensics investigation. But I also would like you, Robbie, to get on board to head up the criminal investigation. Without knowing more, it seems that every person on board is a suspect, and it would be far better to have an outside officer – an _English_ officer – to head up the investigation. Will you both go?"

Lewis locked eyes with Hobson, amazed. How could they be so far from England, so thoroughly out of contact with the Oxfordshire police, and _both_ manage to get caught up in an English murder? It really was ridiculous. Robbie couldn't stop the resigned laugh that insistently bubbled up. He clasped Laura's hand. "It figures, doesn't it, Luv? It just figures." He knew from her eyes that she was up for the challenge.

Then he turned to Battisti, becoming all business in the face of this new assignment. "Fine, we'll both go. But we'll need forensic support." As an afterthought, he added, "Tell that English police officer to remove himself from the investigation – as a potential suspect, he's contaminating the crime scene. I'll want to question him first when I get aboard."

0 - 0 - 0

Hathaway set the phone down in disbelief. The Italian police apparently not only had an _English_ medical examiner on hand but also had an English detective, conveniently at the ready to take over the investigation. In Rimini? What were the odds? And this English detective apparently _insisted_ on taking over, concluding that Hathaway himself was a suspect. The Italians had come up with these two "English" investigators in a matter of minutes? _No way_. The only logical conclusion was that the Company had been informed, probably by the K2, and had expediently contacted the Italian authorities to provide this story. The "English" police officer and medical examiner would be Company people, and the "investigation" would be a whitewash. He knew that the cruise industry was a very tight club that kept everything within their own walls whenever possible. Hathaway was determined that _this_ murder would not be kept under wraps. This investigation would be conducted in accordance with proper police standards. He mentally armed himself to confront this tool of the cruise industry, this "English policeman," as soon as he came aboard.

0 - 0 - 0

Robbie held Laura's hand as the police speedboat motored them over to the cruise ship anchored off the little harbor of Rimini. The ship was not as huge as Lewis had expected, and even though he had been informed that it was much smaller than the current industry standard, it still looked way too big to be anchored in the little harbor. It was used for "boutique" cruises, he had been told, those with a smaller audience that generally had a subject focus: there were wine-tasting cruises, music cruises, photography cruises, even – ironically – murder-mystery cruises. But he couldn't help thinking that although a few hundred passengers were much more manageable than several thousand, it was still a formidable task. He prepared himself to deal with the "English officer" already aboard – _a bit too convenient_, he thought – and he expected the man to be a plant, someone inside the Company, who would ensure that things were done in the most expedient manner and with the least damage to the Company's reputation as possible. He knew that the cruise industry was a very tight club that kept everything within their own walls whenever possible. Lewis was determined that _this_ murder would not be kept under wraps. This investigation would be conducted in accordance with proper police standards. He mentally armed himself to confront this tool of the cruise industry, this "English policeman," as soon as he came aboard.


	7. Chapter 6

Hathaway strode down the corridor to the Master's quarters where he had been summoned. He was granted entrance by the seaman standing guard, and drew himself up to his full height to confront the man who rounded the corner from the bedroom into the office – the man who would be attempting to take over this investigation.

The two inspectors stared at each other, stunned speechless.

It was Laura, entering the office from the Captain's bedroom in her white crime scene suit, who began to laugh first.

0 - 0 - 0

Laura almost immediately placed the time of death at somewhere between "no earlier than four-fifteen and no later than four-forty-five in the morning. He's not been dead long. But, I'm afraid from here I can't help you too much with when the deed was done. It would appear that Captain Franklin bled to death, though of course the autopsy could prove me wrong. Probably a bash on the head with the brandy bottle knocked him out and he never came to," was how she explained it. "But until I clean him up, I can't tell you which injuries were fatal or how long it took him to die." She set her lips firmly. "Sorry. He could have been hit anywhere from a few minutes before death to several hours."

Lewis took Hathaway aside shortly after. "James . . . I can't imagine you've done this, obviously, but until we can definitively clear you, you're as much in the frame as anyone else," Lewis told him with an apologetic look. "I want to get you on the case as soon as possible, so . . . can you describe your movements last night?"

Although the tension had drained from Hathaway once he knew the investigation was in competent, unbiased hands, this new turn was unexpected, and his first reaction was anger. "How can you think I had anything to do with this?!"

"I don't. But you want this done properly as much as I do, I'm sure," Lewis said, patiently. "Please indulge me."

Hathaway inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. "Fine." He knew this was proper procedure, though he was still more than unhappy with it. "But I can tell you right now, there are no doubt stretches of time for which I will lack an alibi."

He explained to Robbie how he had stayed up with Ferrara having coffee and talking until close to three, then Paolo went back to the cabin while James went out on deck for a smoke. And the night was so beautiful, he stayed there for over an hour. There were other people about, but because he had been gazing out at the sea and stars, he wasn't sure he would recognize anyone, or that anyone would recognize him. After that, he'd gone to his cabin.

"Paolo can vouch for me from about 4:30 on; he wasn't having a good night."

"And Paolo is who, now?"

Hathaway explained how he knew Paolo and why he was on this ship with him. Then he chuckled. "I could tell the minute you found out I was on board that you were dying to ask me what I'm doing here."

Lewis knew James was a good enough detective that his curiosity about James's presence would have been obvious. "A cruise ship tour with the life and work of Dante as a theme, talk about a niche audience." He shook his head. "How's it been, up til now?"

"A real pleasure. I am enjoying myself far more than I dreamed I would. Until this English copper came aboard, hopelessly delaying the voyage to Ravenna, and practically accusing me of murder. That's been a downer," he smirked, rather humorlessly.

"Well, it's a fairly small ship so maybe someone will remember you," was the only positive thing Lewis could say. "I need you on this case, but I can't muck up procedure just for that. I'm sorry."

Hathaway smiled bleakly, understanding Lewis's position. "I guess I'll just head back to my cabin, then."

But Lewis wasn't done with him. "But no, hang on a minute. This interview isn't over yet." He saw James's brow furrow. "The thing is – you've met some of these people, right? You've been on board with them for days. I'd like to know if you think any of them in particular could have done this."

Relieved to be of some help in the case, Hathaway settled down in a chair and proceeded to inform Lewis of all the details he knew about the passengers and crew of the _Song of the Adriatic_.


	8. Chapter 7

James returned to the spot on the deck where he had spent his unaccounted-for time just a few hours ago. He was surprised to see Stefania there, staring at the quiet harbor of Rimini. He checked his watch: just after ten.

"Aren't you supposed to be officer of the watch right now?"

She started, then realized who had broken her train of thought, and she smiled. "Andrews is taking it. He was supposed to be disembarking in Ravenna, but it doesn't look like we'll get there any time soon. Besides, he's as loyal as a dog to Captain Franklin. And Barstow is there, too. None of them know what to do – unexpected down time. Otherwise, it'd be unlike Barstow to hang around the bridge if he didn't have to. And since we're not under sail, there's no need to stand watch anyway." She sounded regretful.

Hathaway gazed the harbor in silence a while. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

Her lips tightened. "Well, it's a shock, of course. I keep expecting him to come around the corner . . . you know? It's hard to believe he's . . . gone," she whispered the last.

James studied her closely. "Were you in love with him?"

Her mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise at his frank question. On the verge of protesting outright, she then closed her mouth and considered the question. "I suppose I was. He was so charismatic. He could be so kind and soft-spoken and then other times so stern and unyielding. I suppose almost everyone on the ship had some kind of strong feeling for him, whether it was love, lust, envy . . . He wasn't a man you could just not think about . . ." she trailed off, perfectly illustrating her own point. Hathaway let her take her time. "He wasn't irresistibly handsome, not in my opinion. But when he looked at you with those blue, blue eyes, he could take your breath away." She snorted. "I really_ do_ sound like I'm in love, don't I? But I didn't realize it, and I didn't act on it like some of the crew do, practically drooling on him."

Hathaway followed her lead. "Some of them are obvious about it?"

"Terribly."

"I was told he had a girlfriend, one of the waitresses."

Stefania rolled her eyes and shook her black mane of hair. "Olivia? What a joke."

James cocked a half smile. "Do tell."

0 - 0 - 0

Jean Innocent frowned at the display on her phone, but she interrupted the debriefing she was getting from DS Maddox with a raised hand and tapped it on anyway. "Well, you're one of the last people I expected to hear from. Are you back?" Maddox saw at first confusion, then amusement, and then astonishment – in that order – cross the face of her senior officer. Then Jean was all business. "Give me the details and tell me what you need from me. Of _course_ I'll authorize the investigation, though we'll probably have to hand it off at some point. I'll check around. This is more than a bit unusual, Inspector. You'll need a quick result or the company will be breathing down my neck." She scribbled notes rapidly onto a pad of paper, re-read some of the number series she'd been given, and at last rang off. Then her eyes met Lizzy's, and the junior officer could see the amazement in her expression. Innocent shook her head slowly. "You will _never_ guess what that was about."

0 - 0 - 0

Lewis stared at the phone and pushed aside his empty coffee cup. He inhaled . . . exhaled . . . and considered whether he wanted another. Innocent had called him back ten minutes after his call to her. She'd heard from the cruise company almost immediately, and they had been aggressive in expressing the need for the shortest possible delay in the cruise schedule. Lewis was to narrow his suspects ASAP and get them to shore so the rest could continue their cruise.

He sighed. So far, he hadn't even cleared his own colleague. Frowning, he studied the names jotted down on his pad of paper and sorted through some of his notes. He had set up shop in the Captain's office. Now that forensics was done there, he was able to take over the desk. Laura was back ashore in Rimini, conducting the autopsy in a borrowed morgue. A narrowing of the time frame would help a lot. Among the officers he'd had the chance to question, he had gotten suspicious vibes off of quite a few. It seemed several of them were lying or trying to hide something, but they couldn't all be killers. And he could tell there was plenty of discord among them, but he was the common enemy, and he knew it. They would ally themselves against him, but he was all alone. He needed James!

As if on cue, there was a quiet knock. "Sir?" Hathaway pushed his lanky frame past the door. "Sir, I've found someone you should talk to." He gestured for someone behind him to enter. The man that followed was short and stout, with close-cropped black hair and thick black eyebrows. His mouth was asymmetrical, and the left side of his mouth drooped a bit. He stuck out his right hand across the desk in greeting, and Lewis shook it. The grip was a bit more limp than Robbie liked.

"This is Professor Guido Tagliacci, University of Padua. _Dottore_, this is Detective Inspector Robert Lewis." Hathaway turned happily to Lewis. "Professor Tagliacci is a Dante scholar. He gave a most interesting presentation the other night about Dante's use of symbolism in The Divine Comedy. Most interesting," he repeated, beaming, despite Robbie's skeptical cocked eyebrow.

"I'm not sure right now is a good time for me . . ."

"No, sorry, I've brought him here because he remembers me. He saw me on the deck of the ship last night."

That got Lewis's attention. "Oh, aye? Why don't you step out in the corridor a moment, James, and let me have a word with him, then?"

When James had pulled the door closed behind himself, Lewis turned his attention to the professor. "I'm sorry, Sir, I don't have the means of offering you a coffee, but . . . he gestured toward a chair, and Tagliacci sat, an expression of puzzlement in his eyes.

"I hope Mister Hathaway isn't in any trouble, I found him a delightful participant in my presentation the other day. Such intelligent questions he asked!" He glanced around at the room nervously. There could be little doubt that he realized they were in the Captain's quarters.

Lewis smiled reassuringly. "Nothing for you to worry about, Sir. There's been a bit of a problem on board, and it seems Mister Hathaway needs to account for his actions during the time he should have been in bed in his cabin. I believe his absence is innocent, but there's a potential accusation . . ." Lewis let the professor's imagination take him wherever it might go.

Tagliacci looked amusedly scandalized. "Ah, an upset wife, perhaps? Tsk, tsk, that kind of thing can be common on a cruise." But he turned more serious. "You're a detective, did he say? Is this a police matter?" The worry returned to his eyes.

"I'm retired from the force. I don't suppose people think of police officers as taking their holidays aboard a cruise like this!"

Tagliacci drew all the inferences Lewis had hoped for. "Ah, of course!" Nodding happily, he continued. "Yes, well, Mister Hathaway had been such a stellar pupil in my presentation, of course I recognized him last night when I was out on the deck reading and enjoying the wee hours. I saw him stroll out from the dining area to enjoy a cigarette."

"About what time was this?"

He pondered a moment. "Well, I'd gone out there around two-thirty . . . Ah, I know!" He pulled a small tablet from his jacket pocket and began tapping it. "My e-reader," he explained. "I made a bookmark when I recognized Mister Hathaway, intending to stop reading and talk to him." He smiled triumphantly. "There: 3:06 it was."

"But you didn't say anything to him?"

"He seemed absorbed in his thoughts. And –" he broke off, embarrassed. "I'm terrible with names. I couldn't call out to him without it being obvious I'd forgotten his."

Robbie nodded encouragingly. "How long did he stay? Were you there the whole time?"

Tagliacci did some mental calculations. "He stayed about an hour and twenty, thirty minutes."

Lewis's eyebrows shot up at the precision. "How do you know this?"

Taglicci turned conspiratorial. "I'm an ex-smoker, Sir. But a regretful one. When I can enjoy a cigarette vicariously thanks to someone near me indulging in the habit, it's like I'm smoking it myself. The way that young man was drawing, it would have taken him about six minutes to finish. Then he waited about the same length of time before lighting the next. I can tell you as a matter of fact that he smoked seven cigarettes during the time he stood there. Yesmoke Reds, I'd say from the smell, though I didn't see the packet."

Not just an expert on Dante, this man. "Then you saw him leave?"

"Yes. He checked his watch, put his cigarettes away, got out his keycard, and went back inside the ship."

Standing, Robbie again reached to shake the man's hand. "Thank you, Professor. You've been very, very helpful." He saw Tagliacci to the door, and then stuck his head into the corridor, where Hathaway was already striding for the cabin. Lewis's broad grin was enough to tell him he was back in the game.

"Did you tell him why you needed the information?" A bit of a worried tone in James's voice.

With a sigh, Lewis confessed: "He thinks you were accused of not being in bed with your partner, and he thinks I, as a retired police officer, was on this ship all along."

"You lied to him!"

"No!" Defensiveness always thickened Lewis's Geordie accent. "I didn't say that's what I _told_ him; it's just that that's what he thinks."

"Ah. Good."

"Now, what have you learned in the meantime this morning?" Lewis was anxious to get moving on the case.

"You sidelined me – what was I supposed to learn?"

The older man shot him a knowing look. "Spill."

"According to the First Officer who found the body, the rumor I told you earlier about the waitress Olivia being the Captain's girlfriend is entirely untrue. She has an obvious crush on him and started the rumor herself. It's possible she even believed it. She has gone on record with ridiculous stories before, describing her encounter with space aliens on her Facebook page, for example. Also to be seen on her page are photos supposedly of herself and Captain Franklin in compromising positions, but predictably, either his face is obscured or it's obviously not him, or it's unquestionably a bad Photoshop job."

Lewis looked thoughtful. "Any chance she approached him last night and didn't take rejection well?"

The other man considered a moment. "It's possible, she could get angry enough. Last night, when another woman was unsuccessfully trying to flirt with him, she said she'd kill the woman if she touched him."

"Who was this other woman?" Lewis was checking his notes.

"Sophie Palmer, wife of retired Captain Robert Palmer." He pointed to the names on the list.

A thoughtful breath. "Any chance Sophie got successful and her husband found out? If Olivia is good at denial, maybe Sophie wasn't so unsuccessful at that."

That earned him a skeptical look. "Unlikely, based on how fast Franklin flew from the table when Sophie tried to hit on him. He looked genuinely displeased."

"Well, maybe Captain Palmer _thought _she was successful."

"Ah. Now that is a possibility, Sir."

"I've told ya, James – we're equal rank now, no more 'Sir'!"

"Sorry. Old habits. Sir." That smug expression.

Lewis ignored him and tapped the pad with his pencil a few times. "Right. This doesn't strike me as a domestic matter. Innocent is pushing to get it wrapped up neat 'n' tidy as fast as possible. Let's split up these officers." He handed James a list of names, but then studied Hathaway's eyes. "If that's alright with you, a-course."

Hathaway jerked his head up. Was Lewis playing him? But there was a little smile on the older man's lips, and James knew they were both feeling their way through their reversed roles and that it was a challenge for both of them to break those long-ingrained patterns.

"Right, then," Robbie continued. "This is the list of deck officers that Barstow gave me. I was thinking if we each take two from each of the three watches, we can cross-check their stories. They'll close ranks on us, so if we can get two from the same watch at the same time, maybe we'll find inconsistencies."

"Find the cracks to pry them apart."

"Exactly. Starting with first watch: since they were on duty from 4 a.m. 'til 8, they're most likely to have alibis for the critical hours and maybe we can clear some of them."

"Er, can I just –" Hathaway was suddenly fidgety.

"Go on, what d'you need? A smoke?"

"No, I . . . I'd just like to check on Paolo. Won't take a minute."

Lewis studied his friend a moment. The compassionate side of Hathaway was not seen very often. He nodded slowly. "Right. I'll just tell Captain Barstow you'll be needing his quarters for interviewing. Meet back here when you're done."


	9. Chapter 8

Hathaway closed the cabin door softly behind himself. Paolo had been asleep when he got to their room, and the peaceful expression on his face told James that it was a valuable rest. And there had been a tray of dishes outside the cabin door in the corridor, so Paolo had eaten, too. Relieved, he had written a quick note and left it by Paolo's eyeglasses: "_P – I'm back on the case! Sorry about all my grumping this morning. Hope you're feeling better. Text me when you get this! J._"

Now he hurried to get back to officers' quarters, taking the stairs two at a time. Faster than waiting for the lifts, and it was only a couple decks up. But when he arrived on the deck where the bridge was, he saw white-uniformed officers leaning over the port-side railing, shouting excitedly to each other. Even before he got any closer, his keen ears caught, "Man overboard!" Two officers flew past him, almost clearing the entire flight of steps in one bound. Hathaway rushed to the side of the ship and looked over.

Below, he could see other heads popping out over the railings and out of windows to see what was happening. No alarm had been raised, but unquestionably, word had spread fast. Now he saw that the two officers had lowered the small launch at the back of the lower deck, and as soon as it hit the water, they gunned the motor, shooting the little boat over to where a body floated, face down. A woman, Hathaway thought, from the body shape, but with the clothes billowing in the swells, it was hard to tell.

He changed course and hurried to the Master's quarters, knocked, and let himself in without waiting for an answer. Sitting at the desk across from the officer he was interviewing, Lewis looked up, startled. He immediately understood that something was wrong, and before the younger inspector could speak, he was on his feet and pulling on his jacket. As he hurried after Hathaway, he was given the explanation for the rush. They lined up at the railing with the other officers and members of the crew and watched as the rescue boat was hauled back aboard. The two officers were no longer hurrying, and the body lay motionless under a blanket. Lewis touched Hathaway's arm and cocked his head toward where the little tender-boat was being secured.

Hathaway was off like a shot, racing to intercept the body as it was brought from the boat. The ship's medic was there, too, but the expression on his face showed he already understood there was nothing he would be able to do.

And indeed, there was not. They put the body – still wrapped – on the gurney the medic had brought, and they wheeled it to the medical suite, where there was an exam room. The doctor pulled back the blanket and looked at the victim's face. Even Hathaway knew who she was, and her name sprang to his lips: "Sophie Palmer." The other men nodded in assent. Hathaway took immediate control of the situation.

"Go get Captain Palmer," he ordered the medic. "And be as discreet as you can. Don't tell him she's dead. Just keep repeating, 'They have her in my office.' Understood?" The doctor nodded, took a breath, and then went out.

James turned to the two officers. "Now, what happened? Who saw her first?"

One of the officers stepped forward. "I saw her first. Second Officer Thomas Hillerman, Sir," he added in response to the question that sprang to James's lips. "I was looking over the side, and suddenly, she fell into the water. From one of the decks below me. I can't be sure which. I mean, she just _fell_. It was weird. And then she didn't move. I just grabbed Tony and took off to launch the tender without waiting for orders."

Hathaway studied Hillerman. He was young, not more than 22 or 23, and almost as tall as Hathaway, breathing hard from the exertion and excitement despite his wiry build. "Weird, why weird?"

Hillerman pursed his lips. "Well, it's hard for people to just fall overboard. Especially if the ship isn't moving. The railings are high enough that people have to climb up to be able to get enough of their body mass on the wrong side of the railing." James could see him reviewing his mental video of what he had seen. "It was like someone pitched her over the railing, y'know? Like you'd throw over a sack of potatoes."

Hathaway patted his pockets absently and then glanced from one officer to the other. "Excuse me, do either of you have a cigarette? No? Can you . . ." He fixed his eyes on the other officer, presumably 'Tony'. "Can you find me one from anyone? And a light."

"Sure, yeah, I know some people . . ." Tony hustled off as James looked after him appreciatively.

"Must be great, working so closely with these people. I've met several of the officers and crew on this ship, and it reminds me of the police academy, where you learn how to really work as a team, how to trust each other with your backs." His eyes snapped to Hillerman, gauging his response.

The young officer grinned genially, finally now having recovered his breath. "Yeah, it's great." But then his smile crooked a little. "Well, it's not _all_ great. Some of the people are real jerks and you're stuck working with them or maybe even rooming with them, if you're not an officer. And a lot of the Guest Services crew act like they're peers with us officers, but that's not the case. The officers are all serious about being mariners. We want to learn how to sail a ship and to move up in the ranks. The crew, they're mostly here as a way to travel the world without paying for it. One big party to them, this." He looked disgusted.

"The officers, they aren't into partying?"

He thought a moment before speaking. Hathaway was pretty sure that, as the adrenaline rush in his blood cooled down, the young man's guard was being raised and doors were closing on his true thoughts. "Look, we work hard on this boat. Some like to party hard, too. But I think everyone understands what is at stake and what our real responsibilities are when we're under sail. There isn't a bunch I'd rather be with in heavy seas or gale-force winds."

_Ah, the loyalty card_. Hathaway knew the interview was as good as over. He smiled understandingly. "The police force is the same way. You might want to strangle the guy working next to you, but you'd fight for him like a tiger against a common adversary."

At that moment, Tony returned with a cigarette and a cheap, disposable lighter. He looked back and forth between James and Hillerman, instinctively sensing that sides were being drawn. Knowing he'd get no further useful information out of either sailor, James merely jotted down his details, asked if there was anything he'd seen that struck him as odd (predictably, there wasn't), and dismissed them both.

He realized he was moving trancelike toward the covered corpse, and he slipped on another pair of latex gloves. Pulling the blanket back halfway, he studied the body. He was no medical examiner, obviously, but he'd seen more than his share of corpses. They were never beautiful, never, despite what romantic writers might say to the contrary. And he knew the telltale signs of drowning.

Mrs. Palmer's corpse did not bear those signs. Instead, she had bruising around her throat that strongly suggested strangulation by ligature. But he would need Dr. Hobson's confirmation to make it official.

There was a knock on the door, and DI Lewis peeked around the opening. "Just you?"

Hathaway nodded, and Lewis approached the cadaver, his eyebrows raised questioningly at his former sergeant. The younger DI dipped his head respectfully, indicating he was speaking of the dead. "Mrs. Sophie Palmer, I recognize her. Death by strangulation."

Robbie nodded sagely. "Not a death by misfortune, then." No surprise in his voice. "Well, I suppose we need Laura back here." He pulled out his mobile and tapped it, turning on speakerphone. An answer came blazing back at him before he had any chance to ask a question.

"_No, I'm not done, Robbie! Not even started! Trying to get anything done here with this Italian bureaucracy is insanity on depressants – nothing doing, at half the speed it usually takes to get nothing done!_"

Lewis gaped at his phone, then put it in private-talk mode. "Erm, Luv, I wasn't ringing you to push on the first corpse, I'm ringing you about the second."

He held the device an inch or so from his ear in case of another explosion, but it wasn't necessary. Laura simply gave a long, tired sigh. "It's never just one with you boys, is it?"

Keeping his smile out of his voice, "Yes, there's been a second murder. It's clearly strangulation by ligature, with the body thrown into the sea to try to make it look like drowning. We amateur pathologists I think have got that much ascertained." But, Luv . . . we do need your official okay on the crime scene before we can send her over to you."

"I have to get going on Captain Franklin, Robbie! They've given me an excellent assistant, but she's not legally qualified to do it herself." He could hear her exasperation, and he was aware that she already knew what his response would be.

Ten seconds of complete silence. Hathaway counted them off in his head, surprised at how much longer it felt, as the senior detective waited, hoping he had successfully sweet-talked his partner.

And the eventual response was as chilled as ice: "Send me a transport. Don't ask me for time-frames."

"Battisti's already on his way to collect you, Laura."

When the call was completed, Robbie gave a long exhale, clearing his lungs. His eyes connected with James's. "Right. Where're we at, Inspector?"

Hathaway realized Robbie was making it clear who was in charge of the investigation. He snapped to attention.

"Well, we had decided to interview the deck officers. And although we know Mrs. Palmer was threatened with death by waitress Olivia, who also might have had a motive for killing Captain Franklin if he in fact he failed to return her amorous attentions, I suggest we stick with the original plan and continue with the officers, as planned."

0 - 0 - 0

Jean Innocent rang off from the latest phone call from Italy. But she had to admit, Lewis was right. It was an English investigation, and they needed English officers. He and Hathaway were swamped, trying to do the whole thing themselves. It slowed them down, having to conduct the most basic questioning – the cruise-ship equivalent of door-to-door – while at the same time needing to resolve the case ASAP. Pressure from The Company was mounting. They needed boots on the pavement, so to speak.

She sighed, and pressed some buttons on her phone. When her call was answered, she said simply, "Lizzie, I need you to come see me. How would you like to go to Italy?"


	10. Chapter 9

Laura stared hard at the horizon as the little police boat beat against the waves on its way to the side of the anchored cruise ship. She was aboard along with Battisti and the forensic team, heading back to the _Song of the Adriatic_ for the second time that morning. In the meantime, '_Levante_' – the wind out of the east – had picked up, and going was choppy. Her stomach didn't take kindly to that, especially given the stress of this sudden assignment in an unfamiliar setting.

"Are you alright?" Battisti's heavily accented English cut into her thoughts as he sat down beside her. His gaze was one of concern as he detected her physical distress. "I am so sorry, Doctor Hobson. It will be better on the big boat."

"Claudio, please call me Laura." She smiled despite her discomfort.

He smiled genially, and placed his arm around her shoulders. "Okay, _bene_, _grazie_." They sat that way for several minutes; the warmth of his body seemed to relieve some of her nausea. He took a measured breath and studied her.

"Robbie is very lucky to have you as a partner, Laura. I am extraordinarily envious. I hope he appreciates what he has, though to leave you here alone, working hard, it seems to me he does not." He placed his hand on her thigh. "I wish I had someone like you in my life."

She looked up at him, incredulous that he was apparently hitting on her at a time like this. He squeezed her closer and with the arm he had wrapped around her, began rubbing her upper arm.

She stood up abruptly and moved away. "Please don't."

Behind her, she could hear Battisti's noisy exhale. "_Oddio_, Laura, I am so sorry! I have forgotten how sensitive the English are to being touched. I did not mean to –" He got up and moved to face her, taking her hands each in his. "Believe me, please, when I say like this to an Italian woman, it is no more than to show that I care and that I appreciate the good fortune of my friend, Robbie. I did not mean anything – how to say? – inappropriate. I only meant to show concern as a friend." He realized he had overstepped British boundaries, and he turned away, going to the far side of the small boat, where he sat and put his back to the cabin to give her some space, gazing out over the agitated water toward the ship. They were close now, it wouldn't be much longer.

Laura felt bad, but she had been far too uncomfortable in that situation to apologize to Battisti. Then she saw him stiffen and rise to his feet, staring out at the water.

"_Ferma, subito! Ferma la barca!_"

The boat whooshed to an immediate halt, and Battisti gestured to another officer to assist him with a net. She moved closer to see what had caught his attention, and saw a number of small, white pillows bobbing on the waves. No, not pillows, _packages_. Drugs, in her experience. The Italian police swiftly netted them aboard, and by sight there could be no doubt. Five packages of what was certainly a controlled substance. They were no more than three meters from the port side of the ship.

0 - 0 - 0

The knock on the door of the Master's quarters came at an inopportune moment. Lewis thought he was about to get a useful piece of information from the subject of his interview, but with the interruption, First Officer Rossi immediately resorted to throwing up a wall of silence. Sighing, he called out for the person at the door to enter.

Battisti opened the door, waving what Lewis recognized as official documents and indicating that a confidential conference was necessary, right now. Lewis glanced toward Rossi. "Mi scusi, un momento, per favore signorina?" She nodded her assent, and Lewis brought Battisti under his wing and ushered him into the Captain's bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"I'm in the middle of interviews, Battisti! What do you have for me?"

The Italian detective's face was placid. "First I need to tell you that as we were about to come aboard just now, we recovered five packages floating in the sea off the port side of your ship. Field testing proved them to be cocaine. Of course, there is no proof they came from aboard the ship."

Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes, thank you for telling me immediately. Adds another theory to the case. Can we get a drugs dog to go through the officers' and crews' quarters?"

"It might take a bit of time, but I'll see if I can get one aboard. And I have for you the forensics report. Not the autopsy, that will take more time. But the rest is here. I thought you would want to know as soon as possible: the cctv cameras show that only two passengers entered officers' quarters last night." He paused for dramatic effect. Lewis's raised his eyebrows to indicate he appreciated the value of the information Battisti was bringing him.

"One of my officers recognized them. They are well known in the cruise industry: Mrs. Sophie Palmer first and then Captain Palmer, not too long after."

"Ah. And what about officers and crew?"

"Officers of course came and went all night. They live there. But there was also one crew member who entered officers' quarters. Not anyone I recognize, but . . ."

Lewis furrowed his brow. "Do we know when these people exited officers' quarters?"

"Yes. The video is in the file. But you should understand that of all the guest passengers, only the retired Captain and his wife can be suspects."

"Understood."

Battisti handed over the file. "Not all the security cameras were working. The one just outside the Master's suite, for example, did not work. All the details are here." He handed Lewis a thick folder of printed material.

"You'll let James know, as well?"

"Of course."

Lewis sighed heavily. "Well, if there are only two passengers that are suspects, let's get the rest of them off the ship and into some very interesting land-based excursions or lectures or whatever it is they like. Who's our go-to guy for that?"

Battisti made arrangements for the Excursion Director to have whatever access to motor coaches, experts, and tours of the local sites that might be needed, then he headed back to oversee the forensic team.

0 - 0 - 0

With Hathaway running his interviews in Barstow's office while Lewis conducted his in the Master's, they were able to get through the list in just about two hours. When they met to compare notes, they found that, without fail, those on the watch corroborated that their fellow officers were present on the bridge at all times during their assigned 4 hours. Some of the officers were able to provide alibis for their off-watch hours, and it became rapidly apparent to the two detectives that one of the most popular downtime activity was hanging out in the officers' or crew's bar and drinking. Since there were security cameras in these locations, they would be able to corroborate these alibis fairly easily. But for some of the other officers, there were hours where no alibi could be provided or there was an alibi, but it was only weakly corroborated. They came up with a short list of those who merited further questioning: Andrews, Hillerman, Rossi, one of the helmsmen, and the cadet.

Lewis scowled at the list. "You think Barstow checked out okay?"

"His alibi is solid: Met with the Guest Services Director from just after midnight to 1:50, then he was in the officers' bar until first watch from 4 to 8. I checked with the Guest Services Director just now, and he told me from midnight until about 2 he had been meeting with Barstow about complaints passengers had made against a couple of the crew. He showed me emails he had sent during their meeting back to the Company about it. Seemed legit. And the bartender specifically remembers Barstow being present on account of they are not on the best terms."

"He doesn't seem very well liked, does he?"

Hathaway inhaled slowly. "According to what my old mentor taught me, that doesn't make him a killer."

Robbie refused to rise to the bait. "And you think that's fair to say?"

"I was taught by the best." Smirking.

"So I've heard."

They reviewed the names on the short list. Andrews had been in the officers' bar from midnight to around 2, and said he then returned to his cabin to sleep until 4, when Steve Carter came off watch. From 4 on, they played PlayStation games in Carter's cabin, had breakfast together around 7 in the officers' mess, and went up to the bridge when they heard the news at 8:15. "Everything fits – his only time without an alibi is between 2 and 4. Apparently, he had quite a few in the bar but seemed to handle it well enough," James said, "and Carter's story matched his. He couldn't help gloating at how thoroughly he dominated Andrews in FIFA football. Said he always wins when Andrews has been drinking."

"And Hillerman?" Lewis asked.

"Thomas Hillerman, officer of the first watch from 4 to 8, had been in the officers' bar between midnight and three, and then he stopped by the officers' mess because he heard they were serving mussels saganaki, which is – or I should say, _was_ – his very favorite on-board dish. He made a pig of himself, and then twenty minutes later found out they had to discard the whole batch because it was tainted. Not long after that, he was seen upchucking over the railing. He started to head for the bridge to stand his watch, but he ran into Captain Barstow, who realized he was having a terrible bout of nausea and urged him to go to bed. Barstow said he'd take Hillerman's watch for him."

"Very nice of him."

"Yeah, sweet guy. Anyway, Hillerman says he went straight to bed and bathroom, and by around 8 he was feeling a little better so he came up to see if he could take a shift to make up for it. But Rossi told him it wasn't a problem and he could go back to bed. He didn't, though, which is why he was on hand when Mrs. Palmer went overboard."

"So his time with no supporting alibi is from around 4 until 8? Do we know for sure he was sick?"

"The kitchen has verified that almost an entire batch of mussels had to be discarded when three people reported getting sick after eating them. But that doesn't exactly answer your question."

The older man nodded sagely. "First Officer Rossi has a similar problem. After she left the charming company of yourself and Paolo, she went to her cabin and spent the next six hours doing paperwork and yoga and then going to bed. She was up at 6 for more yoga, followed by breakfast. The later yoga session was a group session for passengers, so she has her alibi there, as well as for breakfast in the officers' mess. Apparently, the officers are required to attend a certain number of passenger events – dinner, tours, recreation – they're considered celebrities, of a sort. But between a quarter past midnight and 6, she has no alibi." He tapped his fingers on the desk. "Stefania was a closed book when I tried to find out what she knew. She admitted that drugs were at times a problem among the Guest Services crew, but she was adamant that there was no such problem among the officers. 'You wouldn't last ten minutes if Franklin found out you had a problem. And he was very good at finding out – he saw every detail.' So she said."

"What about the helmsman?"

"That would be Luigi Cartello." The Geordie copper frowned. "He's Italian, like your Rossi. He speaks some English, but he had such a thick accent, we barely understood each other. So some of this might not be accurate."

"Thick accent, did he say where he's from?"

"_Napoli_, I think he said . . ."

Hathaway chuckled. "Naples. That's practically the Geordieland of Italy. Their local dialect is so different, some people consider _Napolitano_ a separate language. In short, neither of you can properly speak your national language, let alone a foreign one."

"Funny. Maybe you should conduct your own interview."

"No, no, I'm sure you did fine. What did he say?"

"Well, basically he was on duty from midnight until four. After that, he said he went to bed. But he had a shifty look, and I pressed him further. I didn't understand all the words, but I got the very clear idea he'd had a woman in his bed. But he either wouldn't name her or he couldn't understand my question."

"'Who?' seems pretty easy to translate. He doesn't appreciate how helpful it would be to him for us to know who she is?"

Lewis just shrugged. "And the Cadet, Shawna Harris?"

"She was on the same watch as Cartello, midnight to 4. Interestingly, she seems to have the same story as he does: in bed from 4 to 8; when I pressed the matter by asking 'Alone?' she gave an almost certainly false negative answer." He paused. "D'you think they were with each other?"

"Why not? Must be romantic, sharing the watch in the wee hours." Sardonic smile. Then, more seriously, "Now what about Captain Palmer and the unknown crewmember?"

The taller man gave a decisive nod. "You take Palmer. I'll try to get a positive ID on the crewmember and bring you the name as soon as I have it."

0 - 0 - 0

It wasn't too long before there came a quiet knock on the door to the Master's quarters, and when Lewis opened the door, his former sergeant handed him a slip of paper. _Olivia Gastone_. Lewis's eyebrows rose in tandem. "The waitress? Our invading crewmember?"

"The one and only. How are you doing?"

"Just finished with Captain Palmer."

"Ah. Well done. How was he?"

The older man shook his head sadly. "If in fact he _wasn't_ genuinely grief-stricken, he should be in the National Theatre. Said he followed his wife a few minutes after she went out on what sounded to him like a fabricated reason, certain she was going to tryst with Franklin. He burst in on them, expecting to find the worst. Instead, he found his wife in angry tears on the sofa and Franklin backing away from her, also looking angry. Franklin countered Palmer's obvious jealousy: 'If you knew me better, Captain Palmer, you'd know I'm a happily married man. I have neither the time nor the inclination for shipboard romances.' Palmer admitted that other people – reputable people – had told him the same thing about Franklin, but he was so jealous of the way his wife acted toward the man that he refused to believe them. He broke down in tears more than once. I know that doesn't mean he's not a killer, but I found his emotions very genuine. He said when they got back to their room, things were still tense between him and his wife, and Sophie had gone out on deck to 'get some air,' by which he thought she intended to do some soul-searching. I think it's safe to move him to the bottom of the list. But it wouldn't hurt to check the cctv to see if they left the officers' quarters together." Lewis paused sharply. "In my opinion."

The new inspector chuckled at Lewis's attempt to re-train himself. "Why don't we go explore the wilds of the crew quarters together?"

"And where do we find the crew quarters?"

James had no idea. But he knew someone who did. He tried to suppress the urge to smile he felt at having an excuse to use the number on the back of the business card he'd been given last night, but when he realized Lewis was following his lead without question, he lost the battle. He beamed.

The more experienced inspector, in contrast, managed to keep his own smile under wraps.


	11. Chapter 10

Outside the door, the two names on the sign read: _Olivia Gastone_ and _Tiffany Carwell_. They could hear the music already even with the door closed. Hathaway knocked loudly, and the response, too, was loud.

"Hey, you know it's open, just come in and par-taayyy!" An American accent.

James cocked an eyebrow at Robbie. "Ready to par-tay, Sir?"

"Always." They opened the door, and immediately the smell of marijuana smoke hit them full force. A short, dark-haired woman in her early 20s swirled up to them. As their incongruous appearance began to sink in, she stepped back. "Ooh, are you sure you're in the right place?" That she was under the influence of at least one kind of intoxicant was readily apparent.

"Tiffany?" Hathaway took the lead, since he already knew this was not Olivia.

"Yeah." She looked him up and down. "You're _tall_." She smiled, obviously flirting.

He flipped open his warrant card. "Tiffany, we're police officers, investigating serious crimes that have occurred on board this ship. We'd like to speak with your roommate, Olivia. Do you know where she is?" There was no place for her to be concealed in the claustrophobically small double cabin.

"Yeah, she's workin'."

"When is she off-duty, noon?"

Tiffany snorted. "Guest Services crew don't work those easy hours that ship's officers work. She'll be on 'til three. But she gets a break every three hours."

Robbie tapped his arm. "I'll go talk to her." James nodded, and off he went.

Tiffany seemed to sober up a little as she studied him. "Police?" she asked, uncomfortably. James noticed her eyes were irresistibly drawn across the room. Following the trajectory, he spotted small plastic bags, knotted closed, a group of about 4 or 5 on the desk on the other side of the room.

"Oh, are these yours? Cocaine?" He prodded the bags with the end of his pen.

The young woman drew herself up straight. "Not mine. I don't touch that shit. I see what it does to people."

"Olivia's, then."

It took Tiffany too long to reply. "No, I don't think so. Maybe someone left them after the last party."

He could tell she knew it sounded lame. Adopting his best this-is-for-your-own-good tone, James leaned in. "Look, Tiffany . . . I'm sure you know there are some things about Olivia that don't quite add up. Right now, we haven't eliminated her as a suspect in some very serious matters that occurred on board this ship this morning. In fact, we haven't eliminated anyone from our investigation." He gave her a pointed glare. "Do you know where she was at any time since, say, midnight last night until now?"

Tiffany shook her head. "I mean, like, she was in and out, but I wasn't keeping track of the time. She lotsa times finds someone to spend the night with –" here, she giggled. "Well, we call the time we have to sleep 'night' even though it can happen at any time of day, y'know? Cuz like, if you're off-duty from ten in the morning to 8 in the evening, we call it 'night' cuz that's when you sleep." She turned a bit more serious. "So she was here sometimes and not here sometimes, but, like, I dunno when. Her shift starts at 5, if that helps."

"Five in the morning? And she works 'til 3 in the afternoon?"

Tiffany shrugged. "We all have shifts like that."

James was thoughtful a moment, hoping Tiffany would infer that he was very, very serious about the line of questioning he was about to take. "I need to ask you something important. Do you know where she gets her drugs?"

It worked. The young woman seemed to be thinking hard. At last, she admitted, "I don't know where they get them. I mean, _they_ don't know where they get them. If you want drugs, there's a number you can text. You tell them what you want, and they tell you how much, y'know? Nobody knows who provides it, as far as I know. But I'm not into that, so I might be out of the loop, like."

"You don't know the number they text to?"

She shook her head.

"Do you know where the exchange takes place? I mean, they must meet with someone to exchange money for drugs."

She looked earnest now, almost eager to help. "Y'know, it's funny. We call it the 'piss post.' There's this toilet by the medical suite. It has one of those two-sided things in the wall where you put your pee sample when they do drug tests. You open the little door on your side – in the toilet – and put the sample in there, then when you go out, they know to take it. It's super easy to fake the tests. The users pay people like me who aren't users to pee into a jar for them. Everyone passes all the time, unless you're stupid. Anyway, when you text for drugs, the guy – whoever it is – tells you how much and when it will be ready. Then you go to the piss post, put your money in the thing, knock on the wall, and when you hear an answering knock, you open the little door and there's your score." She gave a little frown. "I suppose some people know who it is. But I've never met anyone who claimed to know, and people here claim to know stuff all the time that they have no clue about."

Hathaway turned to go. "Thank you for all your help, Tiffany. I promise no one will know you talked to me." As an afterthought, he added, "I hope you find better employment soon. This doesn't seem like the kind of place you deserve."

With his back to her as he left, he couldn't see the way her face lit up at this unexpected praise.

0 - 0 - 0

Olivia was fully occupied in waitressing the early afternoon shift in the restaurant, and the Maitre d' made it clear that she couldn't leave for questioning until the end of her shift. Lewis had just missed her noon break, but he managed to get in a few questions as she was loading trays of food for diners. The young English woman vehemently denied any knowledge of drugs aboard the ship (which Lewis found both unlikely and unconvincing). She could validly account for some of her time during the morning hours, but not others. Her explanation for her nocturnal visit to the officers' quarters: "To see Scott, of course. We knew the cctv camera by his cabin wasn't working. So I could never be caught on tape going into his suite." She said she'd paid him a quick visit – they had jumped in and out of bed faster than usual – sometime around 3 a.m., she thought. But not convincingly, in Lewis's mind.

Frustrated, he wandered away from the restaurant. It would be another 20 minutes perhaps before Laura would be done with Mrs. Palmer. He found himself on the outer walkway where Sophie Palmer had spent her last moments. It hadn't taken them long to determine from which deck she had been tossed overboard. The scratches in the paint, the abandoned shoe, and – most tellingly – the incongruous piece of nylon line that perfectly matched the size of the marks that had been made on her neck . . . they all pointed to the same deck. And now Lewis strolled that deck disconsolately, seeking any overlooked clue, any scrap of something that would fill a gap in the picture. He leaned against the railing, shifting his eyes upward, away from the sea that was such a powerful draw for his gaze. _I won't look there. You keep trying to lure me in, Sea, but I won't look 'til I'm done here._

Suddenly, his focus snapped onto something he hadn't noticed before. A cctv camera, pointed directly at the locus of the crime. Two breaths later, Robbie sprang into action. He fairly sprinted to the security office of the ship, demanding to see the video from that camera. At first, they offered a stunned refusal. But when a phone call to Captain Barstow confirmed the authority of the English police aboard the ship, the security officers complied grudgingly. Lewis would get his video.

0 - 0 - 0

Laura Hobson wearily looked up as the senior English detective entered the ship's medical suite. Robbie was shocked by how exhausted Laura looked. He immediately rushed to her side to offer what support he could. "Sit, sit, Luv. I'm sorry, this has been too much."

She waved off his concern. "It's just seasickness. We have dead bodies piling up here, Robbie. Don't try to coddle me." She drew a weary breath and began. "Obviously, Sophie Palmer was dead before she hit the water. Strangled, apparently with something like the piece of nylon rope, as you have been so kind to point out. I'll need more testing to say for sure. Then she was chucked over the railing and into the sea. That is pretty much all I can tell you at this point." She inhaled tiredly. "Do you want me to focus on her, or to continue to learn all I can about Captain Franklin?"

Robbie had already confirmed with James what their priorities were. "Focus on Franklin. He's the key." But then, melting, he gathered her in his arms, nuzzling her neck and planting a few kisses there. "Laura . . . don't stress yourself on this. Soon enough Interpol or someone will come and take over on this, I'm pretty sure." _We're supposed to be on holiday!_ he reminded himself accusingly.


	12. Chapter 11

"Shall we have another go at some of the officers?" Lewis's question as he entered caused James to glance up only briefly from the screen of the computer in Barstow's quarters. Too preoccupied to answer, he waved his long fingers at the computer screen.

"Have a look at this."

Robbie came around the desk to see the screen. It was obviously a news website, but all in Italian. He huffed in frustration. "What am I looking at in English?"

Hathaway jabbed a finger at one of the headlines: _Crociera d'Inferno, usa cocaina il ucciso_. "Or, as reported in the Daily Mail –" He switched tabs and the familiar, advert-heavy, splashy glare of the Daily Mail's website popped onto the screen: "Cruise from Hell: coke-head Captain murdered!" Just below, the publicity photo of Captain Scott Franklin.

Robbie glowered. "What the hell . . . Where did they get this? No, I know, 'sources close to the investigation,' right?"

"Not even that much. But it sounds to me like there's a leak in the forensics lab."

"Is all this about drugs?" Lewis asked unhappily.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I'd better have another chat with Laura."

He headed out, finding his way back to the medical suite. Laura was in the corridor, following the cart bearing Sophie Palmer's body, pushed by two sailors. "A moment, Doctor?"

She hesitated, then nodded, and they returned together to the medical office. Lewis took a big breath. "What can you tell me about where cocaine comes into this picture?"

She snapped her head up sharply. "Why do you ask?"

He explained the news stories and watched as her expression darkened.

She blew out her cheeks. "These forensic scientists are a direct pipeline to the Italian press. But the reporters have twisted the information to make it more sensational, as usual. We found traces of cocaine on Franklin's hair. But not _in_ his hair, nor in his fluids. So it's present on the ship, but he's not a recent user."

"Well, there certainly seems to be a recurring theme of drugs in this case. Can you tell me anything more?"

"We've only gotten the basic lab results on him: no drugs in his system, only slight alcohol present. Nothing of significance in the rest, and Robbie, I wish I could tell you more but I simply have not had the opportunity to look at him at all." She shook her head resignedly. "I had to go through a mountain of paperwork before they'd even let me into the lab, they've given me just the one assistant, and I was just doing my initial look-see when you called about this one." It was as close to an apology as she ever got. "Now if you'll give me an hour or so before you call in with Number 3, I might have something for you."

He smiled fondly, reached his arms around her, and kissed her forehead. "I'll try to hold off that long." He could feel her tension draining away as he held her, and he knew they were still okay.

"The sooner we get you on that police boat, the sooner you can get back to your lab and the sooner we can be done here." Holding her hand as they headed for the stern where the police boat was moored, Robbie felt a wave of contentment, being at her side. There was music in his head, and he realized he was humming. Laura's eyes crinkled in amusement, though she said nothing. But when Battisti met them at the mooring, his eyes narrowed. "You're humming Puccini? Is that _Nessun Dorma_? I thought you were not so fond of opera!"

"That was before I heard it sung live at the Verona Arena. Changed me life!" He grinned.

Claudio nodded sagely. "Oh, yes, it would." He was utterly serious.

0 - 0 - 0

Waiting for Lewis to return, James opened the forensics report Battisti had provided. As was typical of such reports, it included reams of information, very little of it useful at first glance. Phone records, drug/alcohol tests, photographs, ship's records, photographs of bloodstains, all of it extensive and tedious to look through. He sighed. How were the two of them, himself and Lewis, supposed to make sense of all this?

Just then, there came a quiet knock on the door. And, before he could respond, a second, more assertive knock.

"I'm coming, I'll be right there!" He shouted impatiently. Hathaway flung open the door and gasped in surprise at who was there.

"Lizzie Maddox!"

She checked to make sure his tone was welcoming, and then pushed past the stunned inspector. "Your British backup has arrived, Sir!" She grinned that cocky grin of hers, and James was unable to resist the urge to return it.

"CSI Innocent thought you might need a wee hand. Got anything for me to do?"

Hathaway knew Maddox was good, but he had never before felt such a wave of relief and gratitude as he did then. He handed her the thick stack of paper. "Let me tell you about this case . . ."

0 - 0 - 0

Robbie returned to Barstow's quarters as soon as he was done restoring Laura's sanity. "How are we doing?"

When Hathaway's eyes connected with his, he saw in them the challenge of the hunt. "Lizzie Maddox is here; she's been going over the forensics. Look what she's found so far." He pointed to some sheets of paper pulled out from the others. Lewis studied them.

"Captain Franklin phoned Andrews the evening before he was killed? One minute – not a long conversation, then."

"Yeah, but Franklin called the Company just after. And Lizzie found something else." James pushed a diary across the desk, pointing specifically to a note jotted in the margin. "Captain Franklin's diary. The initials 'EA' appear next to the early hours of this morning." He gave Lewis a significant look. "As though –"

"As though he had arranged a meeting with Andrews some time after his watch!" The older man was suddenly energized. "We need to talk to him!"

"By the way, the drugs dog is here. They're starting with the crew quarters. Barstow is resisting our 'attempted invasion of the privacy' of his officers. Says in the officers' quarters, we can search the common areas only. Apparently, it's a given that the crew have no privacy anyway."

The senior officer groaned. "Let me work on him. Searching the officers' quarters is vital. You take Maddox and see what Andrews has to say in the meantime. And James – use Franklin's cabin for it, hey? I mean, if you think that's best."


	13. Chapter 12

First Officer Earl Andrews proved to be an interesting piece of work, in Hathaway's view. Tense, obviously. Hiding something, almost undoubtedly. Loyal to Captain Franklin, unquestionably. In some sort of conflict with at least one of his fellow officers, clearly. With a drug problem, unlikely. With a woman problem, quite possibly.

When they had knocked on Andrews's cabin, the young man opened the door only a few inches. "We'd like to have another word, Sir. There are a couple of things we need your help to clarify."

Andrews looked most unwilling, and he extracted himself from his cabin and closed the door firmly behind himself. "Okay. I don't have any real choice, do I?" They didn't answer that question.

As they moved toward the Master's quarters, Hathaway pondered the situation. Andrews was clearly unwilling to let them into his cabin, but that was his right. He was fully capable of overcoming them, physically – his physique was almost picture-perfect, his musculature well developed and well defined. He moved like a wrestler, confident in his own body. Yet the nearer they got to the Master's cabin, the more James could feel the confidence draining from Andrews. While he would have liked to have a look around Andrews's cabin, it was just as well they were bringing him onto their turf – and the scene of the crime, as well. It was the ideal setup for breaking a killer.

They began gently, asking him about where he had been and what he had been doing during the hours at issue. Andrews had been the officer of the watch on second watch, eight at night until midnight, and he was essentially chained to the bridge during those hours. Hathaway gave Maddox a significant look, and the sergeant continued. "But that's not all, is it?" There was no answer. "We've been having a look at Captain Franklin's mobile, Earl. He phoned you earlier in the evening, before you were on watch. Did he ask you to meet him? His diary has 'EA' jotted in along the margin for the early hours of this morning. Is that you? There isn't anyone else with the initials EA among the officers."

They could see him swallow, but he didn't answer, and she continued. "A meeting requested by the Master, not likely you'd just forget to mention it the first time we talked to you. What was it about?"

Andrews shifted his gaze to the floor and drew in a long breath. "I dunno." He swallowed. "I didn't go." His voice was hoarse, breaking. "He didn't set a specific time or say what he wanted, and I got worried. Worked myself into a real state. I'd had a few drinks in the officers' bar, then had a whisky in my cabin to steel my nerves, then another, and another. And then I realized I couldn't go meet him in that condition, what would he think? He treats me like a son, y'know? Both in the good way and the bad way. He really looks out for me, helps me in my career. But if I mess up, he rams it down my throat, it's like I've let him down personally. Then I was afraid he'd come looking for me or send someone to get me. I tried to sleep but I was too worked up. At four, I went to Steve's cabin so he wouldn't find me if he came looking. Steve's my best friend on board and he knew I was supposed to meet with Master. He knew better than to ask questions when he saw the state I was in. I hoped I could just avoid him and then it would be time for me to disembark and I could avoid whatever was the issue." He grimaced. "Real mature, right? I just . . . I dunno. I've been under a lot of pressure lately and probably not performing at my best, and I thought if I could just get a little shore leave I'd be fine when I came back."

"Did Steve think it was a good idea, avoiding the meeting?"

Earl shook his head. "He said I should get it over with. He didn't know I never went."

"He's your best friend but you didn't tell him something so important?"

"Y'know, sometimes what makes you friends is the fact that you don't have to tell each other everything. I know that sounds weird, with people telling everyone everything these days on Facebook and Twitter and all. But it's how it was with us."

"How long have you known him?" Lizzie was picking up on her guv'nor's line of questioning.

"Since I came on board the _Adriatic_, about six months ago."

The inspector took a turn. "So, your appointment with Captain Franklin: why try to hide it from us?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. He looked utterly miserable. "I wanted to forget about it. I didn't think it was important. Anyway, what difference does it make whether I was in my cabin sleeping or getting drunk?"

James felt his phone vibrate. He gave it a quick glance.

"Erm, excuse me a moment. Sergeant, continue, please." He stepped into the bedroom and shut the door, putting the phone to his ear. "Ciao, Paolo. What's up?"

0 - 0 - 0

Barstow had finally conceded to a search of his subordinates' cabins after Lewis pointed out to him that it was in his own interest to know if one of his officers was using drugs. It had been impressive to see Agent Gallo of the Rimini police lead his drug-sniffing dog, Bianca, through the crew quarters. She was a beautiful dog – a pure white Alsatian – and she maintained her focus on her job no matter what the outside distractions were. Ears forward, nose working, tail wagging, she made her way from cabin to cabin methodically, not ready to leave each room until she had sniffed it thoroughly. In the second cabin, Lewis noticed that she passed right over an ashtray with the remains of a marijuana joint in it.

"Mi scusi, Signore?" He was amazed to see his beginner's Italian actually worked: Gallo halted Bianca and turned to the English Inspector. "Sì?"

Robbie pointed to the ashtray. "She doesn't smell that?"

Gallo frowned as he peered at the ashtray, then shook his head. "No, no, no, no, no. You say you want to find cocaine – she trained to find cocaine. Her name – Bianca, it mean white. She find the white drug, no?"

But Bianca had to be given a break before she began on the officers' quarters. The crew quarters apparently were saturated with cocaine residue, though only rarely did they uncover actual drugs. Gallo took Lewis to one side. "These quarters, there is residue everywhere, she not know where to alert." And Stefania was there suddenly, ready to explain the situation to Lewis. "The crew, they come and go, very much . . . how you say? Overturning?"

"Turnover."

"Esatto. Much turnover among the crew. Their cabins are not cleaned by staff, they have to do cleaning themselves. So the drug smell remains even though the present crewmember maybe does not use, you see?"

Gallo explained, "Unless the dog she find actual substance, we cannot say that the occupant of a crew cabin knew about the drugs."

Robbie sighed, resignedly. "Yes, I see."

0 - 0 - 0

After ending his brief phone call, Hathaway had pulled Lizzie aside for a moment and told her there was something he needed to do. She was to continue with Andrews's interview, and if she finished before he came back, she should connect with Lewis and see how he wanted to proceed. And so she had done, having only a few more questions for the First Officer, she soon dismissed him and quickly located Lewis by phone.

With a capable sergeant to help him out, Robbie had decided to have another go at Barstow. The K2's reluctance to allow Bianca into the officers' cabins had struck him as being a little off, and a bit of double-teaming was in order, he thought. But by now they had worked on him for almost an hour with little to show for it. The man was intensely self-assured. Despite the fact that he and Maddox worked their toolbox of techniques as though they were an experienced team, not one crack appeared in Barstow's demeanor.


	14. Chapter 13

James knocked on the cabin door and entered without waiting for a response. Paolo lay on his bed, doubled up with pain. His teeth were clenched and there were tear-tracks on his cheeks. The inspector laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, patting him gently.

"I'm here, Paolo, just hang on, we'll get you fixed up." He dug around in the drawer of the bedside table until he found the bottle he was looking for. He extracted a tablet and poured some water from the bedside carafe into a glass. "Okay, let's sit up . . . Good enough. Here. Got it?"

Paolo managed to wash the pill down with a swallow of water, and in a few minutes, his breathing was under control and he started to relax a little. Hathaway knew what Paolo would want, and he fingered the priest's rosary and watched for a sign that Paolo was ready for it. All he could do in the meantime was simply to sit next to him with an arm around him and wait quietly for the pain to abate.

0 - 0 - 0

By this time in his career, Captain Chris Barstow had been under more intense fire numerous times and had always come out on top. He didn't consider the two English detectives to be worthy adversaries, and in his opinion, he had deflected their questions more than adequately. He had an alibi for every minute, an explanation for every deed, and a properly sad-but-cooperative attitude. When they dismissed him, he left the Master's quarters feeling smug, satisfied at having convinced the detectives that there was no point in spending more time investigating Chris Barstow. But he was a bit off in his perceptions.

"That one moves to the top of the list, don't ya think?" Lewis had tried to refrain from controlling the investigation, and for the most part, had done well at that.

Maddox excelled at Devil's advocate. "But his time is all accounted for. Either he was on the bridge or he was meeting with one of the staff or else in a public area."

The older man frowned, dissatisfied. "How'd you make out with the cctv from where Mrs. Palmer went over?"

The sergeant shook her head. "Wasn't working."

"What? Another broken camera?"

She firmed her mouth into a line. "No, not broken. Turned off. Someone deliberately turned it off at 10:36 this morning."

He stared. "But no one knows who."

"As usual."

There was a knock, and Hathaway reentered the suite. "What did I miss?"

"I didn't get much more from Andrews, just that his respect for Franklin seems genuine. There's no cctv for the deck where Mrs. Palmer was assaulted, and Barstow is sticking to his story."

"You should have seen his swagger when he walked out of here! He played us, and he thinks he won. Nahhh, there's something very dirty about him. I'd bet my career on it."

James knew that Lewis's bet-my-career record was perfect, to date. And to him, that was worth quite a bit. "Okay, let's pick him apart. What about his alibis?"

"Well, the Guest Services Director, I suspect his word goes to whoever pulls rank. The bartender . . ." Lewis lost patience. "Hell, they're _all_ his employees, Company employees! This bloody cruise ship industry, it's as thick as the police! You know how it is! If an outsider questions you about another officer, _any_ officer, doesn't have to be Oxfordshire, you take the officer's line, no questions. Well, it's the same with them. If an employee, especially a ship's officer, needs an alibi, you nod and agree that that is where he was. In my mind, the alibis are worth nothing, they're as much rubbish as the bloody safety drills they do!"

James smiled gently and touched his mentor on the shoulder. "I'm not arguing with you," he said softly. Lewis almost snapped a retort, but he checked himself, breathing hard and blood boiling. Then he cleared his lungs and closed his eyes.

"It would certainly help if we had a narrower time frame." Lewis pounded his fist into his palm in frustration. "Why doesn't . . ." he broke off. Obviously, they needed the autopsy results. And just as obviously, Lewis wouldn't blame Laura for the delay or pressure her for results. But it was still frustrating.

"I know what you mean," Hathaway said quietly. "Barstow is definitely still within our sights."

0 - 0 - 0

"Doctor, I don't mean to presume, but . . ." Emilia Carofiglio, Dr. Hobson's temporary assistant, momentarily touched Laura on the arm to get her attention, despite the other demands the pathologist was facing.

Something in her manner made Laura focus on her. "What have you got?"

Emilia fidgeted a little under her intense scrutiny. But, taking a breath, she held out a drawing pad. "I'm, ehhh, interested in anatomical drawing. So while you were out, and I, ehh . . . had really nothing to do, I took a look at this one's skull." She gestured toward Franklin's corpse. "The wounds on the top of his head are superficial, and they're a couple hours older than the others." She gulped and continued. "See, here, I've drawn his skull as it would have looked after he was hit in the head with the brandy bottle – his head obviously was hit with something cylindrical that upon impact caused numerous abrasions and superficial cuts, and the bottle's circumference matches perfectly – and these are the contusions he suffered as a result." She tore off the top sheet from the pad and handed it to Laura. She rushed on, in case Laura tried to stop her.

"Now, _these_ –" she pointed to the next sheet of drawing paper – "are the injuries that were inflicted several hours later. You can't get the time difference by the photos because they all show the earlier injuries together with the later ones." But if you layer these," she took the page she'd handed Laura together with the next, and laid them over the light-box, "you can see that together they account for all the injuries to this man's head." She pointed to the photographs that showed each cut, abrasion, and lesion of Franklin's bloodied skull.

Hobson stared at the drawings, then went over to the corpse and studied Franklin's head closely, teasing the strands of hair out of the lacerations. Her eyes returned to the drawings, and then back again, checking their accuracy. They were flawless. "You drew these?" Her peripheral vision caught the nod. "They're excellent! The detail . . ." the rest of her compliment was lost in thought. "He wouldn't have died from the blow, but it might have knocked him out, given the placement. But these later cuts – he'd have exsanguinated in minutes." Laura snapped an appreciative gaze at the young Italian assistant. "This is excellent work. Please let me know to whom you'd like me to send my compliments, okay?" She hugged Emilia, letting her know her work was not only excellent, but also that it was soundly appreciated.

"Now let's figure out the exact timing of these two sets of injuries."

The young assistant beamed. Being included in the English pathologist's investigation was more than she'd been entrusted with by her Italian supervisors. For the first time, she felt that someone appreciated her attention to detail. "I'm very happy to help you, _dottoressa_."


	15. Chapter 14

"So, who have we still got in the running?" James was unhappily checking the list of people they hadn't yet cleared. Maddox called the role:

"There's Captain Chris Barstow, who technically has no chink in his alibi but we all still suspect him," she glanced at her boss to ensure she wasn't overstepping with her cheek, and continued. "First Officer Earl Andrews, who has already imposed credibility issues on himself, but who seemed to worship Franklin. First Officer Stefania Rossi, who has no alibi for the critical time but also has no reason to want to kill anyone. Cadet Shawna Harris and helmsman Luigi Cartello, who probably could easily alibi each other but for some reason don't seem to want to, neither has any known reason for wanting him dead. Captain Palmer, but I think we can cross him off. Finally, waitress Olivia Gastone, who claimed to be Franklin's mistress but who has no evidence supporting this fantasy."

"Did you get to speak with her, S – Inspector?" James caught himself just in time.

"Not much chance until she gets off work. Denies everything about drugs and told a pack of lies about having a quickie with Franklin around 3 in the morning."

Hathaway leaned forward. "Why would either Rossi, Cartello, or Gastone want to kill Captain Franklin?"

The others blinked at such a broad question, and Lizzie spoke their thoughts aloud. "They wouldn't. There's nothing that shows a private vendetta or something personal against Franklin on the part of any of them."

James continued this train of thought. "This was a violent attack – a deliberate, violent attack. There must have been powerful emotions fueling it."

Robbie shifted unhappily. "Or drugs. I still think drugs has something to do with it. We know people kill to cover their tracks. Where are they coming from, on board this boat? They all know, but won't spill. What if Franklin was the source? He obviously had contact with cocaine, the lab tests show that. Make sure the dog goes through this cabin as well."

Hathaway blew out his cheeks, slowly. "I don't have any basis for this, but . . . I just don't get the impression that Franklin was involved in anything shady. That's my gut feeling, and there's no evidence supporting me . . ." he trailed off, disconsolately. "If Olivia feared him, she'd be free to say now, because he can't be a threat any more. But she doesn't say."

When he glanced up, his mentor was grinning. "Those gut feelings, James, don't disregard them. Olivia fears someone else, that's for sure. I think you're 100 percent on target here. And it's my gut sense, too, that Franklin was the good guy in this case. You have to look actively for both evidence that he was innocent and evidence that he was not innocent. It can be fairly difficult. But it's your job." He stretched. "I'm retired, remember? And on holiday."

"Nice for you."

0 - 0 - 0

Another knock at the door, and this time Battisti came in. "The dog just alerted in one of the officer's cabins." He checked his notes. "Earl Andrews, First Officer. We found residue in the bathroom that field-tests positive for cocaine."

The leapt to their feet as one.

"Get him back in here!" James barked. Lizzie was already heading out the door.


	16. Chapter 15

Lizzie waited in the Master's bedroom, listening while the two inspectors worked as a team on Andrews. She paged through the forensics report, seeking nothing specific. There being just the three of them, they'd not yet had time to go through the whole file, and some of this was new to her. The report on the blood at the scene, for example. They hadn't run DNA, but it was clear there were two types: one that matched Captain Franklin and another that didn't that had been found in the smears on the Master's neck, on the broken bottle, and droplets on the carpet near the bathroom. And the lab report on the ship's officers. While almost all of them tested positive for varying levels of alcohol, they all tested clean for cocaine, except for Andrews.

0 - 0 - 0

"We know about your habit, Earl, the drugs dog found cocaine in your cabin. Was Captain Franklin a user, too? There was residue on his hair, y'know."

Both detectives saw the giveaway. That moment when fear, or hesitation, or an ebb of confidence – whatever it takes – it's that moment when you know you've found the chink in the armor.

Without checking with Hathaway, Lewis pressed the opening he saw. "You met him, in his quarters, right? He had something to talk to you about, didn't he, you knew it was something important. But things didn't go the way you hoped and you got angry. You hit him over the head, didn't you?" He went in for the coup. "And you killed him. Maybe you didn't mean to, but you did." Lewis heeled back, eyeing Andrews, careful to catch any nuance there may be.

Earl's mouth opened in horror, his head shaking in denial. "Nuh, nuh, nuh . . . No! It wasn't like that! It was just . . ." he realized he had given a lot away and he had to choose his words carefully. He inhaled deeply. "Captain Franklin called me in but he didn't say why, okay? At first, I didn't think anything of it, but then I realized the time he had chosen to meet me was just a few hours before I was to disembark. And I started to get all worried about it, like maybe he was going to sack me and that's why he picked that time." He glanced around suddenly, absent-mindedly patting his pockets and looking like he was about to ask something. Hathaway recognized the signs of a smoker in distress, but he also wasn't about to help Andrews at all, so he said nothing.

Instead, James took a risky stab in the dark. "So you did a line or two to boost your confidence before going to meet him." Andrews gaped at him, and Hathaway knew he'd hit home. "You'd best come clean – it seems to me we're looking at either an incident that occurred due to understandable stress and high emotion combined with intoxication, or an incident that resulted from cold planning in advance. I expect you can appreciate the legal differences between the two."

Andrews leapt out of the chair and whirled away, in obvious torment. He wrung his hands and tugged at his hair, his ears, his shirt collar . . . and all the while, Robbie and James waited quietly for his answer.

At last he turned to them. "Why would I kill him? He was going to help me."

The officer's breathing was slowing down and he was regaining focus. He stared at the wall past Robbie's left shoulder, where Franklin had hung his diplomas, certificates, and awards. Then, as though drawing strength from what he saw, Earl steeled himself and spoke.

"Yes, I have a bit of a problem with cocaine. Not a heavy user but it's getting worse. And yes, Master knew about it. I didn't think he knew, but I guess he knew everything about me. He called me in to tell me he was dismissing me on medical leave so that I could get treatment for this, how to put it – to detox, right? He wouldn't report me this time and he would take me back on if I was successful at the detox." His eyes were tearing up. "I didn't intend to have this addiction, and I would do anything to get rid of it. What he offered me was . . . I could have my world back if I made it through treatment. I was so happy, so grateful –" He stopped suddenly, unsure how to proceed.

Then he sagged, utterly hopeless. "Now, with a habit and probably a drugs arrest, I have nothing: no career, no future."

Lewis took a new tack. "Who got you hooked, Earl?" His "gentle Geordie" tone.

The young man gave a sardonic snort. "It was Steve Carter, actually. We were bored one day, a couple months ago . . . and he pulled the stuff out and showed me how to do it. Told me how to text for it, how to pass the urine tests, the whole bit. It was easy, and it helped pass the time. But I got hooked and it was starting to affect my work." His voice dropped. "Master was going to make it all better for me."

James was not about to let him off so easily. "You met with him, he told you he was offering you a course of detox, which you were willing to accept. But something he said made you angry, made you strike out at him, you smashed him over the head with a brandy bottle –" His voice softened. "What happened last night, Earl?" He ended on a gentle note, inviting confidence, implying an offer of help.

But the young officer's growing despair hardened suddenly, and Earl met Hathaway's gaze. "I've told you all I can. I wouldn't have killed him."

0 - 0 - 0

They were brainstorming in the Master's bedroom, leaving Andrews to stew out in the office. Lizzie showed them the lab report. "Andrews was the only officer to test positive for cocaine. Carter tested clean. If he's a user, he hadn't been in at least the recent past."

"Should we talk to him? Seems like he might not be the best friend ever, getting his new buddy hooked on drugs and ultimately costing him his job." Again, Lewis was letting Hathaway make the decisions.

"You talk to him. I'll talk to Rossi. Lizzie, you stay here and make friends with Mister Andrews." He handed her his cigarettes and lighter. "Maybe an offer of coffee or water, too."

0 - 0 - 0

Hathaway made a quick detour as he tapped Stefania's number into his phone.

"Paolo?" He entered the cabin quietly. Relief washed over him when he saw Ferrara sitting out on their balcony.

"Hi. Feeling better, I see."

He was met with that warm smile he knew so well. "_Giacomo_! _Buona sera_."

Hathaway returned the smile. _Giacomo_, Paolo's Italian name for him.

"How is your investigation going?"

"We're getting somewhere. First Officer has a drugs problem. I think he lost his temper and hit the Captain over the head, not realizing the harm he could do. But he hasn't admitted to it yet."

Ferrara saddened. "Sounds like a troubled young man. Be gentle with him, James."

"That doesn't always work, my friend. Though I suppose you'll be pleased to hear I'm just on my way to meet the lovely Stefania again. But on a professional basis, I'm afraid."

0 - 0 - 0

Lewis brought Steve Carter into Barstow's suite and waved for him to sit. "Your friend Andrews is in big trouble right now. Might be facing a murder charge." He paused.

"What does this have to do with me?"

"He's very afraid. Willing to do about anything, say about anything, to save his own skin." He let this sink in a little. "Looks like he was high on cocaine when he met Franklin last night. It made him excitable. Dangerous. We know how he got involved with the drug, Mister Carter. And so do you. But you tested clean. So what was it about? You weren't a user, were you? Why did you get him hooked?"

Carter snorted. "It was his choice. I didn't hold a gun to his head."

"Where did you get the drugs?"

"Through the text number, like everyone else."

"And you don't know who it is?"

"No one knows."

_Well, someone knows_, Lewis thought. "You're not really his best friend, are you? Why do you want him to think you are?"

Carter just shrugged and looked away, staring at Barstow's wall of certificates and awards. Something inside Lewis clicked.

"You want his job, don't you? I bet you were more than disappointed when they brought on a new First Officer instead of promoting you. And so you befriended him to figure out how you could bring him down, isn't that right?" His eyes burned into Carter.

But the officer remained cold. "That's your theory. I doubt you could prove any of it. Even if it's true, it's not criminal to be ambitious."

"How far would you go to get him out of the way? Would you set him up for a murder charge?"

The young man's eyes narrowed. "And how would I do that? You know my time last night is all accounted for."

"Between the hours of 4 and 7, your alibi is Andrews himself. I think we'll ask him about that again, see if he remembers differently this time." Robbie glared at the man, but he knew he'd hit a wall. "You can go for now, Mister Carter. But we'll be talking to you again. Soon."

As he showed Carter out the door, he caught a glimpse of Battisti and Gallo with his dog, packing up their kit and getting ready to leave. A look of surprise crossed Claudio's face when he saw Lewis come out of Barstow's quarters.

"How were you in there? Barstow told us that his quarters were off-limits to the police."

"What? No, we've been using this as an interview room – you mean, Bianca didn't check Barstow's rooms?"

"No, Barstow said we couldn't. Said his only interest was in whether any of his officers were using, so it wasn't necessary." Their eyes met and they both knew what the other was thinking.

"Gallo! You're not done yet!"


	17. Chapter 16

They were having a smoke at the stern railing. Stefania provided the cigarettes, since James's were with Lizzie. But of course as soon as he had handed them off, he found himself terribly in need of one. He drew deeply on it now, grateful Stefania shared his bad habit.

"So Andrews thought Carter was his best friend, but everyone knew differently?"

"No, no, no, no, no. Only the top-ranked officers knew Carter had wanted that First Officer position."

"'Top-ranked officers', meaning . . ."

"Well, Captain Franklin, Captain Barstow, and myself."

"And who made the actual promotion decision?"

"The Company does it. The two Captains each write up their opinion as a recommendation."

"Do you know how that went?"

She considered her answer. "Do I _know_? No, it's confidential." Sensing his disappointment, she continued. "But it was obvious to me that Captain Franklin favored Andrews and Captain Barstow favored Carter."

"Obvious, why obvious?"

"Andrews is good – really good. Better than I was at his age. And Captain Barstow's in trouble, career-wise. He was good enough as a First Officer, but after his promotion to Captain, he got lazy and arrogant. Andrews would have been a threat to him. And I believe Captain Franklin was on the brink of recommending the K2 be either demoted or at least transferred to a different ship."

"What makes you say that?"

She sighed resignedly. "Because Master told me he thought it was going to be a good year for me. He knew how much I want promotion to Captain. Just the way he said it . . . I was certain that's what he meant. And now . . ." She trailed off, tears welling in her eyes

He drew her to his side, wrapping his arms around her, and she sobbed into his shoulder.

0 - 0 - 0

They had reconvened in the Master's bedroom and compared notes. It was clear that, regardless of how the drugs-sniff went, Barstow needed to be questioned again. Carter, too.

Maddox set her iPad down on the table and scanned her notes. "He doesn't know, Andrews. About Carter, I mean. But I think he suspects there's something not quite healthy in their relationship."

"Did he say anything interesting?"

"Not particularly. He's tired. He thinks the world of Franklin." She shook her head. "I can't see why he would attack the man, he practically worships him. What was it he said? 'Like a god on the ship; everything he says, goes.' And more gushing. Hero complex, or something bigger – a crush, sounds like, to me."

Hathaway started. "What'd you just say – about being a god?"

Lizzie checked her notes. "'A god on the ship . . . whatever he says happens'. That's how he described it to me after you went out. It's an understanding, a given, among sailors, the captain's god of the ship, but it's not frequently expressed."

James slapped his palm into his forehead. "Of _course_!" His eyes lit up. "That phrase, like a god on his ship, those are the same exact words Olivia used to describe Franklin, she had a huge crush on him. I think you've nailed it, Andrews had a crush on him, too!"

The older man frowned. "Not so fast, Sherlock. If he'd had a crush, he wouldn't have killed him, would he? Not if he admired him so much."

James clicked his pen rapidly, thinking, thinking. "What if Andrews expressed his feelings to Franklin and was rebuffed? Mightn't he have reacted badly?"

Robbie narrowed his eyes. "You might have something there. But . . ." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Andrews himself never admitted to that sort of feeling."

"No, but he wouldn't, would he? Maybe not even to himself. Stefania was like that, too. I asked her if she was in love with Franklin, and she was about to say no. But then as she thought about it, thought about the way she was describing him, she conceded that she probably was, and just hadn't realized it." His eyes locked onto the others'. "Let's have another go."

0 - 0 -0

They gathered around the man being questioned, and Lewis put a hand on Hathaway's shoulder, indicating he was taking over on this. "Earl," he began in a kindly voice, "it's clear Captain Franklin thought the world of you. He helped you get this job, wanted you on his ship. He thought you had potential, you were worth saving. Anyone else, they show up with a drug problem, they get written up, kicked off the ship, am I right? But not you. He cared about you. Wanted to get you into treatment. I know you wouldn't have wanted to kill him. But sometimes accidents happen."

Earl sat stonily, unmoving.

And then a knock at the door broke the mood. Hathaway went to answer. He turned and abruptly signaled to Lewis, conducting him out of the suite and into the corridor, where Battisti stood, looking satisfied.

"Bianca alerted at several places in Barstow's room. There was nothing we could see, but they're checking it thoroughly. But come here, there's something I need to show you."

Lewis and Hathaway left Maddox to keep an eye on Andrews, and then followed Claudio. He led them to the other side of the ship, to the port-side railing where Sophie Palmer was killed, pointing as he spoke. "Here is where Signora Palmer was assaulted, no? And here—" he pointed over the railing to the water below "—is where we found the cocaine. And here –" he strode to the nearest door that opened out onto the deck "— see for yourselves." He flung the door open and they found themselves looking into Barstow's bedroom.

"Well, what do you know . . ." Lewis stared at the scene as both English detectives suddenly understood much more about their second victim.

"And Barstow would have had the authority to turn off the cctv," Hathaway added.

"What time did Lizzie say that was?"

"10:36."

The older man nodded in comprehension. "I'd just told him we were taking over his office as an interview room." His eyes snapped to Hathaway's. "We need to take him into custody."

"But what do we do with Andrews? Can't just leave him sitting here."

Robbie put a hand on Battisti's arm. "Can you do me a favor, old friend? Arrest Barstow on suspicion of murder and take him to your commissariato. We'll catch up with him there."

Battisti gave a short nod. "At once."

0 - 0 - 0

When the two inspectors opened the door to the Master's quarters, they found an unexpected sight. Maddox and Andrews were sitting knee-to-knee, their foreheads practically touching. She was holding his hands as he wrung them fretfully. Her eyes darted toward the door, full of caution. Lewis stuck out an arm and stopped Hathaway from entering any further. His eyes were clearly warning James to let Lizzie do whatever it was she was onto.

"So when he told you what he was doing for you, you were overwhelmed. What do you mean by that? Overwhelmed by relief, by guilt, by happiness?" Her voice was hushed, confidential.

Earl nodded, and they could see tears in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, all that. Overwhelmed by . . . by _love_. You know what I mean? I realized I loved him." Andrews screwed up his eyes, his mouth, his whole face. Then, after a long moment, he tearfully blurted, "Look, I never meant to hurt him. I loved him. He was the best Captain ever, as far as I'm concerned." He clearly wanted to get this over with.

"I understand, Earl. I know what you mean."

"But I was high, I wasn't thinking straight. Wasn't thinking at all, really, just running on emotion. And I walked up to him and I kissed him. Right on the mouth. And then I told him I loved him." Andrews swallowed hard and he took in a shaky breath.

"How did he react to that?" They could barely hear her question.

He let out a long breath. "He was horrified. He pushed me away, said I was sick. He started to get angry. Said he couldn't believe it after everything he'd done for me. I tried to explain I didn't mean I wanted to be his lover, but I couldn't say the words. I _did_ want to be his lover. Not in some smutty or indecent way but because I wanted to be everything to him. And he was shutting me out, casting me off. I couldn't let that happen."

"No, of course not. You were about to lose the one person you cared for the most." She paused. "What happened then, Earl?"

He firmed his jaw, stopping the trembling there. "He turned his back on me and told me to get out. I saw the brandy bottle. I just reached over and took it by the neck and I . . . I . . . I brought it down on his head. Hard. It shattered and he fell and I realized I had killed him. And I –" He stopped short, and from his throat there came a desolate, keening wail. "Oh my God, I killed him." He buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

Lizzie put her arms around him and held him, rocking him a little. "Shh, Earl, it's over, it's over. Shhhh." Then a bit more loudly, "This interview is terminated at –" giving the time and date. He didn't see her reach over and tap her iPad, shutting off the recording.


	18. Chapter 17

"So you've a signed confession in hand for one murder and a suspect in custody for the other, but you're not ready to sign off on the case? Lewis, what are you waiting for?!" Innocent's exasperation hit him almost physically, even with the phone and over 1,500 km of distance between them.

"I'm just about done here, Ma'am. Just need to talk to Captain Barstow and we can wrap this up."

She huffed impatiently. "Well, _do_ it. The Company has a replacement captain ready to sail and they're going to want to get on to Ravenna today yet, if possible." She paused, then added quietly, "And I need Maddox back here ASAP."

He clicked off the phone and checked the expressions of his counterparts. "There's something we've missed, I feel it."

Maddox was poring through the records. Hathaway drummed his fingers, fidgeting impatiently. "Look, I'll just be in with Paolo if you need me."

Robbie nodded his assent. After James had gone, he let out a long breath. "Ohhh, I don't know. Maybe I'm losing my touch. Andrews confessed, so what more do I want? Why not just sign off on the case?"

But Maddox was shaking her head. "No, Sir, you're right. Look at this." She waved the original incident report in the air. "Inspector Hathaway found it himself!" She read from the report excitedly. "'Signs of forced entry: door not closed tightly, pry marks on jamb, latch damaged.' Someone broke in after Andrews was there!"

He sat up. "What makes you say it was after?"

"Well, Andrews didn't break in – he was expected. And if the door wasn't closing properly, Captain Franklin would have noticed – 'he saw every detail', right?"

"Maybe Andrews broke back in to try to clean things up or to see if Captain Franklin was really dead. Maybe Carter came with him or put him up to it." He pursed his lips. "We're out of suspects, Lizzie!"

Just then his phone rang. _Laura_.

"Hello, Doctor. Please tell me something brilliant."

He could hear the smile in her voice. "I think I can manage that. But first let me say I had some excellent help here, thanks to my assistant."

"Oh, aye?" He could barely believe it was good news.

"Tell me how this fits with your theories: your unfortunate Captain Franklin was hit in the head with the brandy bottle at around 2:30 in the morning. It was a powerful blow, and it knocked him unconscious and shattered the bottle. _But_ –" she paused for effect "—it did not kill him."

Lewis hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he released it in a whoosh. "And . . . ?"

"_And_ he later bled to death after being slashed in the neck and face with the broken bottle. That attack would have been shortly before death, he would have bled out in minutes. Between 4:10 and 4:40."

He sighed. "Brilliant – the one time-frame for which I have no viable suspects."

"Sorry, Robbie, can't be helped. I've done my job, so now it's up to you three coppers to save what's left of our holiday."

0 - 0 - 0

Ferrara had felt strong enough that he was happy to accompany Hathaway up to his favorite smoke spot and let him bounce ideas around. Lizzie had texted him with the news from Hobson. They now had a much clearer picture and they knew when the fatal assault took place. But it didn't seem to help at all. With no obvious suspects for that time frame, nothing was making sense. At last, James shut up and leaned on the railing, gazing at the sea.

He was aware that another person moved next to him, leaning on the railing in a similar pose, and he glanced to see who it was: _Hillerman_. He nodded a wordless greeting. He could tell there was something on the young man's mind.

"Erm, Inspector, can I ask you something? I mean, it's about the murders."

"I may not be able to tell you, but go ahead and ask."

"Is it true that Earl Andrews killed Captain Franklin?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, it just seems so hard to believe. Andrews was like a son to Captain Franklin. It was Captain Barstow who hated the Master. And if the Master had somehow found out his K2 was dealing drugs to the crew –"

Hathaway cut him off. "Whoa, we don't know that for certain yet. How did you find out about that theory?"

Thomas looked flustered. "Are we not supposed to know? Everyone's talking about it. How the dog reacted in his cabin and how he was taken off the boat by the police. It's pretty easy to figure out." He paused. "That's not the part you're stuck on, is it?"

"Who says I'm stuck?"

The young man rolled his eyes. "If you weren't stuck, we'd be sailing for Ravenna."

The inspector was losing patience. "No, you're right, we're stuck. Okay, if you're so smart, here's the part I'm stuck on. Everything points to Barstow, right? But Franklin was fatally attacked between 4:10 and 4:40 in the morning. You yourself said Barstow took your watch because he found you sick on your way to the bridge. So he couldn't have been in Franklin's quarters at that time because he was officer of the watch. The other deck officers were there and they all said he stood watch from 4 until 8. After 8, in fact, since Franklin didn't show up."

Hillerman was shaking his head. "No, no, no. He was late. He's always late. And it was more like 4:30 when I ran into him; I'd been puking over the side of the ship, I couldn't drag myself to the bridge until I got all those mussels out of my stomach. I was going to be late myself."

James stared at him. "What are you telling me? You were seen being sick at half three and you were still hanging over the railing forty-five minutes later?"

"Well, half an hour at least. I was so wobbly, I wasn't moving very fast. I know when I got to my cabin, my clock said 4:45."

"But –" the inspector's brain was buzzing "—why would the deck officers say Barstow had been there on time?"

Hillerman shrugged. "He's late so often that covering for him is instinctive. We do it all the time. He's a pain in the arse. It's much more pleasant when he's not on the bridge and if he got in trouble for being late, he'd have to start showing up on time."

"Nobody would want that."

The officer smiled guiltily. "And you're an outsider, so covering for one of our own would be the natural thing to do. I'm sure none of them thought they were protecting a murderer."

"Ah, not so fast. We don't yet know that any of them were. But you've been a big help to me, even if I am an outsider. Thank you."

"Well, I'm doing it for Earl. He's a good guy and a good sailor. I hope he comes out of this okay."

"Me, too, Thomas. Thanks for your help."


	19. Chapter 18

Confronted with the evidence against him, Barstow's defenses eroded. He provided a string of alibis and excuses, but before long, he realized he had hopelessly contradicted himself and the concrete evidence.

"You'll come out of this better if you tell us your side, Captain." Lewis was handling this. They'd decided that Barstow would concede more to the older, more experienced detective. And they were right.

Barstow weighed his odds, but he could see his position wasn't good. And so he began. "I knew Franklin had found the source of the cocaine on board. And I knew he'd rat me out, he never did like me. Wanted his precious Earl Andrews in my position. He'd mentioned earlier that he hoped to get some sleep after watch, so I waited several hours and then went to his quarters."

Hathaway interrupted. "What time was that?"

Barstow shrugged. "Sometime after eight bells."

Catching Robbie's and Lizzie's puzzled expressions, James held up four fingers. "Continue."

"I knocked quietly. If he'd been up, he'd have answered. But he didn't. So I forced the door and started looking for anything that showed whether he'd sent the Company a report on me yet. Then I heard a sort of groaning from the bedroom and I went in and found him trying to get up from the floor. Looked like someone had cracked him over the head with a bottle. He saw me and got all accusatory and insulting. Said he was going to have me sacked from the _Adriatic_, he'd been just about to send the report when he'd been interrupted. He staggered to his feet, and I realized I could stop him – _had_ to stop him – from sending that report." He stopped there, and Lewis finished the story for him.

"So you grabbed the first thing to hand – the broken bottle – and you started slashing at him. But all that blood made the bottle slippery and you cut yourself. Where?"

The K2 held up his left hand where there was a small incision in the palm, still red at the edges. "Must have hit a vein, it bled like a sonofabitch."

"Did you know you killed him?"

"I made certain of it – checked his pulse before I left."

"And Sophie Palmer? She saw you disposing of your stash into the sea, after you'd gone to all the trouble to shut off the security camera."

"That cow. She'd have told her husband and he'd have reported it to the Company." He paused. "I thought they'd sink."

"The drugs or the body?"

"Well, both, really."

0 - 0 - 0

Lizzie was chatting almost nonstop as she and Lewis motored up the A14 toward the Marconi Airport in Bologna. She had been so excited when she learned she was going to visit Italy, but now she was going back and she hadn't seen really any of it. She was reciting all the wonderful places her friends had been that she still hadn't seen. Lewis chuckled.

"Well, if you hadn't been so good at interviewing Earl Andrews, you maybe could have stayed more than a couple of hours. At least you got a good Italian meal out of it." Battisti had insisted on cooking dinner for his friends for the second night in a row.

"Inspector Hathaway doesn't know what he missed." She grinned.

"Oh, from what he told me, they're fed pretty well on that ship. And it was either miss Battisti's dinner or miss his boat to Ravenna. Not much of a choice, in his position."

The young sergeant at last fell silent, gazing out the car window at the darkening landscape. Robbie took a breath.

"I meant what I said about your interviewing Andrews. It was spot-on. How did you figure out how to loosen him up?"

There was a long silence, and Lewis wondered if she had heard him. He was about to ask again when she inhaled as though to steady herself, and he knew she was ready.

"When Earl was describing Captain Franklin – what a good man he was, what a good Captain and sailor – and how Franklin looked after him, mentored him, and didn't let him get away with less than what he is capable of . . ." She paused, swallowing. "Well, a few months ago I wouldn't have known what he was talking about. In my experience, most bosses aren't like that. But when I was alone with him, and he calmed himself with a couple cigarettes, I told him I knew what it felt like to work for someone you'd do anything for, someone you respected more than anyone else in the world."

One breath in, one out.

"Because it's how I feel now. And Earl knew he could trust me to understand."

At last she turned to see how Lewis was reacting. Seeing the movement in his periphery, he glanced her way, a little smile on his lips, his eyes understanding everything.

She grinned. "And if you tell my guv'nor one word of this conversation, I'll quit the force and get a job on a cruise ship and you two will never see me again."


	20. Epilogue

Lewis sighed happily at the stunningly beautiful dawn being painted on the sky before his very eyes. The sea stretched out to the east, blue and pink and purple under the morning sky. The big ship was gone, having weighed anchor in the evening before, as soon as the English police cleared it for departure. Barstow would not be returning to his post. But then, neither would Franklin, and whether Andrews would was not yet known. He thought about the microcosmic world of life aboard a ship. Yes, it was in many ways similar to the police force. But on the force, the backstabbing was almost always metaphorical only.

A hand brushed his furrowed brow. "You said you would stop thinking about it." Laura was gazing into his eyes fondly. He hadn't heard her come out on the balcony.

He smiled warmly. "Sorry, Luv." He nuzzled her neck. "Maybe we should go on one of those cruises. James said he was really enjoying it."

"Only if you promise not to get caught up in police business."

He snorted. "It should be pretty obvious by now that I can't make that promise."

"Speaking of James, what happened with him and that woman he met? Is anything going to come of that?"

Robbie chuckled. "Wouldn't that be something? I don't see how, though. Those sailors are gone to sea for months. I don't know how the married ones manage." He thought. "Still, the voyage isn't over yet."

"And what happens with poor Earl Andrews?"

"Battisti tells me they'll go easy on the lad, probably plea-bargain some sort of minor assault charge. In Italy, that means it'll likely be a suspended sentence. Since the Company now has Franklin's files, they'll see his recommendation that the lad's drug rehab be treated as medical leave. I think he'll do okay in the end."

She frowned. "So English coppers investigate but the Italian criminal system gets the defendant?"

"Yep, that's how I understand it. Technically, it took place on their turf." He pulled her close to him. "Now, as I recall, you're the one who said I should stop thinking about the case?"

"What case?" she murmured, taking him into her arms.


End file.
